Fresh Sheets
by diva.gonzo
Summary: Hermione reflects on her Sunday routine of drinking coffee, doing laundry, making breakfast, changing linens, and why the sheets on her bed will never be orange. Subsequent chapters deal with why Molly is the best cook, Hugo's confusion, and Ron's needs, and other slice of life story moments in the Weasley Family.
1. Fresh Sheets

Ch. 1 Fresh Sheets

* * *

**For disclaimer: Sure I share a name with JK Rowling, but I am certainly not her, don't have her bank account, nor her poise in public speaking. Anything I write in her world is for fun, practice, and to get my own story telling skills back up to personal par. Plot lines might be mine, but the characters are hers for a really long time.**

* * *

Hermione stood in the laundry closet of their home, reading a tome on the Goblin rebellion of 1607. It wasn't as comfortable as her study, with overstuffed leather chair, compendium of books, or the muggle computer that helps her research.

This was a Sunday morning, and she was washing linens for the beds in the house. She had time, since she had been up since half Five, doing chores before the family was up demanding her attention. They wouldn't be up for another two hours, knowing them. Sunday morning was the only time she let the household sleep, and so she could do more without balancing the demands of her kids and her husband. That would come soon enough. She relished her quiet time as much as anyone else.

The dryer chimed, and she gently placed the wood bound volume on the table, ready to switch out the fresh load of sheets for their bed and put the next set in. She finished the first load already – school uniforms for the kids, who were in a mixed pre-Hogwarts school. After this load of linens for their bed, the next set would be the kid's beds.

She opened the dryer door, catching the first whiff of jasmine, and cinnamon, and vanilla. The spice smells were for her husband, who loved the subtle reminder of his wife. She knew he was reminded of her – spicy, subtle, comforting, just her – and she indulged his whim. It's not like anyone else would notice the inconsequential touches that made her husband happy. She could have used magic on them, but as crisp and comfortable as they usually were, there was something about fresh sheets from the dryer.

One stasis charm later, and a flick of the wand to fold them perfectly, and she was ready for another cup of coffee and another two chapters in her book.

* * *

Half Seven rolled around, and the dryer chimed again. This time, the kid's bedclothes were ready for folding and changing. Cinnamon and vanilla permeated once again, since the kids were like their daddy, and loved sweets as much as he does. She knew that it was a losing battle, but she never was one to acquiesce in a fight, whether it was discussing Life, sweets, or anything else of trifling to monumental importance. Needless to say, they saw Grampa Granger often.

A swish and a flick, and the last of the linens were finished. All that was left now were the duvet set for their bed. Her husband suspected that she had three matching sets of decorator bedcovers, but he never said such. She realized early on in their relationship – less than a week after Ron had moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry that first summer after the world changed, that having fresh bedclothes were necessary. Molly gave her the idea, but she didn't realize it until Molly wasn't doing laundry for them daily.

She insisted on it, for one primary reason.

Ron was constantly randy, and if she was around, and not up against a wall or anywhere not their bedroom, they were in bed. She could have sworn that she washed those linens at least three times that first week she stayed there. Once she had that realization, it became necessary to have a whole linen closet filled with extras – from duvet to sheets to pillows. Even with Kreacher in their service, she refused to ask him to have any additional burden since they shagged so much that first Summer. Thinking back, she wondered how they even got out of bed the entire time.

'Luna was right. He did help me cope and heal.'

Kreacher would hem and haw about her trying to take his job, and on occasion, she would surrender and let him wash the additional bedclothes for them, but it didn't allay her concerns. She even confronted Ron about it one day after he got home from the Wheezes, before she had gone back to school. It started as petty bickering, but it turned into a row which turned into another night of mind-blowing sex.

It only took her three days for him to understand her viewpoint, and consent to going shopping in Muggle London for a huge purchase of matching bed linens for both bedrooms. Once the purchase was back in their shared home, she transfigured the hideous pattered items of what they purchased – she couldn't deign to spend that much on bedclothes that the boys wouldn't give an arse about – into the Gryffindor colors they both loved. The only thing that she spent the extra pounds on – much to the chagrin of the three of them, including Ginny – was that the sheets were ritzy high quality sheets – none of the threadbare cotton that Molly used. Oh no. She made Harry spend the extra 10 galleons each (at least according to exchange rates) on 800 thread count sheets. Sure, they were hideous brown, like her eyes, but once they were home, she changed two sets each into Gold, and Maroon. Once that was completed, there were squeals of delight.

Needless to say, the sheets on both beds needed changing the next day. Poor Kreacher. At least she insisted the guys lug them down to the laundry, while she and Ginny changed them out, laughing at how silly it really was. When they returned, a battle royal pillow fight ensued.

* * *

She perked up from her reverie to realize that it was a little after eight, and her family would be up shortly. These mornings, she felt like Molly, feeding an army of hungry people. Even now, years later, she was amazed at how the woman did it for so long. It was hard enough making plates of eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, scones, fresh fruit, and oatmeal for the four of them. Sure, Ron still ate enough for three people, but Rosie was in the middle of a growth spurt, and Hugo was too, so they needed a good breakfast too. Thank goodness they were frugal in the early years of their marriage and could afford two very hungry kids.

She settled into her bowl of oatmeal with berries and crème, drinking another cup of coffee. When they tucked into breakfast, she would change the sheets on all three beds. The kids never said anything. She didn't think Hugo noticed, but she also didn't think Rosie cared one way or another. Ron did, but he made a point of trying to sully them within a day. By now, it was a game for them, mostly to have another something to have a petty argument about, followed by another blissful night of crumpled sheets. They hadn't had a "run to Harry and Ginny's and stay the night" row in months, if not years. Domesticity certainly agreed with both of them.

Right at half Eight, Hugo stumbled in first. He was like his Daddy, a little bear first thing in the morning until he had a glass of juice and a plate of eggs, sausage and scones. He wouldn't deign to eat toast for some reason. Next would be Rosie, who would nibble on bacon and toast until Daddy got there, then she would tear into her cheesy scrambled eggs. Last would be her husband, who would finish off what the kids didn't eat. He would intentionally leave the fruit and berries for her to nibble on once the kids were at the Burrow to play with their cousins on Sunday morning. That was her second breakfast after Ron satisfied her other appetite.

When Ron walked in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, there was a plate of breakfast waiting for him, and a pot of tea also. A morning kiss for her, and she was off to change the linens in the other bedrooms. Routine agreed with her.

First flick of her wand, and the first set was in her hands. Hugo's room wasn't that bad, at least not yet. He was tidy like her, and didn't abide much clutter in his room

She knew when boys hit puberty those raging hormones would turn her little boy into a stinky one. She also knew that she'd have to get another set or two of bedclothes for this room. Ron could handle that discussion. She chuckled, thankful that particular day was considerably far off into the future. She didn't look forward to this room once he was older, and off at school, filled with stale air for months on end. Maybe Molly would have a suggestion.

For the time being, her son was content to have fantastic creatures adorning his bedroom. Luna and Dean painted the walls as a baby gift when Hugo was born. This room was treasure.

Next up was Rosie's room, right next door.

They truly were night and day when it came to the condition of their rooms. Where Hugo's room was tidy and clean, Rosie's room was what she wished she had growing up. The walls were lined with homemade bookshelves – built with Ron's own hands – and they were stuffed to the gills already. Except for the books, all neatly stored on the shelves, the rest of the room was a maelstrom. If she didn't know any better, this would have been Ron's room, with clutter strewn everywhere. Toys were on the floor, chocolate frog wrappers tossed at the trash receptacle, and her clothes in a pile in front of the hamper. She was quickly learning the art of creative incompetence.

She had her mother's appetite for learning, and her father's appetite for eating. She knew, even if she would never admit it, that Rosie couldn't be bothered about keeping her room tidy like her brother. She had too much else going on in her head to care. She sadly understood that one completely.

Merlin help them when she discovered that boys weren't icky.

Another flick, swish, and swoosh, and the room was tidied, the sheets changed to a deep blue that she preferred, and the bronze ones in the laundry. Next time, they might be Forest Green, or Goblin Silver. They didn't keep to one color in her room. The only thing she asked was that her room be vibrant colors, and certainly not pink ever again. That discussion was a fond memory.

Last but not least, their bedroom. She still laughed on occasion how she let him talk them into such a chaotic disaster of a room. It fit them perfectly.

When they bought the home they live in, the master suite was a disaster. It was covered in a hideous purple, with flowers everywhere. One look from them and they both laughed. "Lavender" was all they could muster before their guffaws scared the real estate agent. Once purchased, however, Ron went to work on it, changing out one wall into a stained glass window, so their room would be bathed in the afternoon sun and moonlight nine months out of the year. The walls of the bedroom were as close as she could make to the color of his hair: ginger with flecks of gold and yellow. She even relented, after a rather through rogering on his part, to let him have the wall behind his dressing armoire covered in Cannons posters, and all things Cannon. She still laughed, that this big bad Auror, who made her melt in want, loved his sports team that much. He loved her more, and showed her often.

A flick and swish, and the linens were once again changed out. Gone were the maroon ones, replaced with the gold ones. She knew he wasn't concerned about either color, but he had been spoiled by her foresight years ago in having such high quality sheets. Her one line was that the sheets on the platform king-sized bed they shared would not be orange. She smiled in remembrance when she told him that the only orange thing she wanted in her bed was him. Their lovemaking from that comment was quite passionate. The marks from that day didn't fade for a week.

She stood at the foot of their bed, watching it get remade via magic, thinking back to Last Christmas at the Burrow, and how he tossed and turned in the expanded bed they had in his attic room. He would never admit it, especially to his mother, but he had been spoiled rotten by those densely woven sheets she loved. He also missed his Cannon's bedspread. Even if she was nestled in his arms, he couldn't sleep unless he felt the threadbare felt under his arms.

The delight on his face when she pulled it out of her bloody beaded bag made for a exciting night, which was filled with joy and a most enjoyable shagging – on the new sheets in his expanded childhood bed.

Ron and Hermione, for Christmas that year, got Arthur and Molly three new sets for their bed. Molly tutted them for spending their galleons on such a trivial gift.

A week passed, and they came back to the Burrow for Sunday Brunch. She told her mother in law that she had changed out on the sheets in Ron's old bedroom to the new ones, and politely asked if Molly had a chance to try out the ones they gave them. Molly didn't completely understand her insistence.

Thursday, she received an owl while at work from Molly. It was a thank you owl remarking on how wonderful those muggle sheets were.

Hermione could only smile.

She was pulled out of the memory by strong arms around her middle along with a brush of coarse ginger stubble across her cheek. "Fresh sheets?"

She leaned into his embrace, smelling the apricot marmalade on his breath. "Is it Sunday morning?" she cheeked.

"Kids are at Mum's, so we have about 2 hours to crumple them."

"You read my mind." She muttered as he went to work on her neck while she threaded her hands through his delectably soft ginger locks.

She glanced over to the second charmed set waiting to go into their linen closet – and it still had a Chudley Cannons duvet folded on top of it. As long as he kept her satiated, they would continue to have a Cannon's bedspread. She would rather be shagged than arsed.


	2. Books for Learning

Ch. 2 Books for learning

Hermione returned to the kitchen ninety minutes later, ready to take in the chaos and mayhem known as her mother in law's residence. She loved the Weasleys in ways that still surprised her after all of these years, but there were times that the unbridled energy that went on inside those walls drained her. Fresh sheets, freshly shagged and freshly showered did wonders to help with the touch of anxiety that went with going to Sunday brunch at her in-laws.

She took a bite of the fresh fruit left on the breakfast table. To this day, she still ate like a bird most of the time. Some habits were hard to break, such as indulging in sweets or eating more than half of the food that went on her plate at the Burrow. At least now no one pestered her about it.

She finished off the rest of the fruit. She put her bowl into the sink along with the rest of the dishes. Ron was good about loading the dishwasher.

As much as she would love to skive off of Sunday brunch with the family, her husband wouldn't hear of it. He never told her, whether in front of his family or the kids, but her cooking was nothing compared to the rest of the women in her life. If anything, it was the one thing that was functional at best. She only knew because she knew her husband, and his love of food. He ate well for her, but his Mum's cooking was his weekly indulgence and delight.

Jean Granger tried, at least until Hermione went off to school, to teach her daughter some of the fundamentals of cooking, such as reading an ingredients label, or measuring those ingredients for a dish to serve at dinner. But even her time at school was focused on those subjects that did interest her – History, Runes, Charms, keeping the boys alive. Those were the most important for her time. Standing over a stove as a child and learning the finer points of making a meal were one of the least interesting things to her. Books and cleverness were considerably more important.

It was now, reflecting back, that she didn't realize the importance of having artistry in the kitchen and other domestic chores. Sure, she could clean and dust the house where a mite would starve, or organize her personal library seven different ways, but her magic, as powerful as it was, was stifled in the kitchen. She didn't have a gift with food. She didn't comprehend how to wield magic with food. She didn't have that subtle touch that made food go from edible to delicious.

Her time spent with Molly Weasley didn't help her skills in the kitchen. If anyone was a magician in the kitchen, it was that woman. How she was able to feed nine people daily growing up, and in the quantities that she could, was remarkable. And the most interesting thing of it all was that it tasted fabulous. She couldn't remember a time when something was over-cooked, or burnt, or was less that delectable. Molly had a gift, where she didn't. Her gifts lie elsewhere. In short, Molly was intimidating in the kitchen.

She felt the strong arms of her husband snake across her slowly expanding hips, followed by a tender kiss behind her ear. "Ready to go? Mum asked us to be there at 11. You know if we're late she'll send Ginny over."

She leaned into him for just another moment, relishing the quiet that was certainly rare in their household, and a miracle at her mother in law's residence. He was freshly showered, smelling of the soap that he insisted she purchase for him. Fresh clean Ron was her second favorite. Only sun kissed grass infused chocolate Ron was better.

They stepped to the fireplace, their next destination being The Burrow.

* * *

They stepped out and were immediately buffeted by the cacophony that was a constant on Sunday morning. Ron took off her traveling cloak, letting her wander into the kitchen before him.

For years, starting with the day their world changed for the eventual better, they were never individuals. They were always RonandHermione. The family saw them attached to the hip, proverbially before literally, yet literally quickly followed. Even when the family was caught in the crossfire known as a row, they were still RonandHermione. Even when they were screaming like tantrum throwing toddlers at one another, they were still joined at the hip. Once the rest of them learned to stay out of the way, there was less carnage. The only ones who had the temerity to even deal with the aftermath were Harry and Ginny.

"Ah. There you are. Ron, go fetch the pitchers of pumpkin juice and take them outside. I need Hermione to help me with the rest of the salads and potatoes," Molly said while she was directing the whirling spoons in the various pots and sauces on the stove.

Ron hugged his mum like he did his wife then scampered outside with the pitchers for lunch. He would rather be outside watching the kids with his brothers and their kids than being under his mum's supervision, or within arm's reach of his sister. Leave the women in the kitchen while they got to play, said the chauvinist side of Ron Weasley. He would never admit it to anyone except his wife, but he loved watching the kids play Sunday morning. He missed out most of the time during the week while he was working so hard. 'These were the moments worth living for,' he thought. 'The kids make living worth it all.'

* * *

Hermione found the pot of boiled potatoes on the stove, and went to work turning them into creamed mashed potatoes. Nothing that some shredded cheese, butter and crème wouldn't make better. Once it was ready, she spooned it into three serving bowls, and added the spoons for it. Next up was the salad.

She stepped up to the island in the remodeled kitchen, finding a less than lethal knife to work on the greens for the salad. It took years before she was comfortable with a knife in her own hand, much less being around other food preparations. She fought the desire to scratch the old scar on her neck, the physical pain having been gone for years. Now, it was nothing more than a nervous habit that she had trouble breaking.

"Finished yet?"

Hermione brought her focus back to reality to see her favorite sister in law and best friend standing shoulder to shoulder with her. Ginny was elbows deep with the last proofing of bread for dinner tonight. All she needed to do was add on the butter to the top and it would be ready to go in the oven. Hermione chuckled. Poor Ginny, always drafted to come over hours early to help with the bread making. She must want the time away from the kids Sunday morning, even if it means putting up with her mum.

"The greens are shredded, and the carrots are diced, along with the radishes and the tomatoes. I think it just needs a dressing and it will be ready for the table."

"Mum, we're taking our things out to the table for brunch. You need anything else yet?"

"No, dear, all that remains now is the ham and chickens for the lunch. You two run along and make sure the kids are cleaned up."

The two best friends grinned when they took the salad bowls to the outside table, thankful that they had a few moments of peace without small mouths or large hands demanding their attention.

"So when is the book going to the publisher?" asked Hermione while she sipped water from her glass.

"A month from now and I hope I can make the deadline. The kids are driving me around the twist while they are at home. I'm sorely tempted to run away for a week just so I can write in peace."

"That bad?" she asked further.

"It would be better if we didn't homeschool them, but Harry wouldn't have it any other way. He told me a while back how bad his primary school was, and I couldn't foist that on the kids or on him. So, instead, I am teaching them at home and earning a gray hair a day from those rampaging hippogriffs."

Ginny had the three kids, from nine to five, and they were a handful on the best of days, monsters at their worst, at least according to her sister in law. She could only smile at their different parenting styles. Ginny might complain, but her kids, as well-mannered as they were most of the time, could be rambunctious as well. She laughed at the differences.

She sent her kids to a private primary school, since she was back working full time at the Law Enforcement office as one of the up and coming Solicitors. Her schedule was fine most of the time, except when her husband was stuck late at the office or out on a mission trip. Those days when he was out in the field for weeks were hard for her to cope.

"Well, I couldn't keep Rosie out of school. She all but insisted when Roxanne told her about the one she went to in London. Angie wouldn't hear of homeschooling Fred and Roxanne, not when she was busy at the Wheeze's every day. Besides, my personal library only has so much appropriate reading material for an eight year old."

They laughed at the joke known as Hermione's personal library. One room of their modest residence, which would have been a small fourth bedroom, had been converted into her own personal study and library. All four walls of the small nook of a room off of the master bedroom had been converted into shelf space for her personal collection. Between the law journals, books from Oxford and Hogwarts, there wasn't much room left for her own personal pleasure reading. Sure, there were a couple of volumes of Shakespeare; one from her husband that was of her favorite poet, Pablo Neruda; Jane Austin; and a couple that Ginny had purchased for her (including her first published book), but the rest were books she had studied up to that point in her life. Tucked away on the shelf above the door, where only Hermione would look, was her collection of read through and yet barely used cookbooks.

She tried on numerous occasions, but it was the one set of books that she couldn't understand or properly apply to her life.


	3. First Christmas

Ch. 3 First Christmas

Christmas 1998 was certainly a memorable one, and in ways that she didn't necessarily want to remember. It was the first one for the Weasleys where their family was incomplete, with brother Fred having been laid to rest out under the solitary Oak tree on the edge of the Orchard. It was also the first one where the family was free of impending doom. Lastly, it was also the first one where Hermione finally felt like a part of the family.

She received from Molly her first Weasley jumper, and a cookbook. She turned a fabulous shade of magenta upon opening her present. The jumper was beautiful, in various shades of gold and auburn and brown, but was mortified at the cookbook. She looked up at Ron and saw him and Harry laughing. Appreciation turned instantly into anger. 'How dare they?' She thought in a pique.

She felt the sting in her eyes before her temper broke. "How dare you, Ronald Weasley, laughing at me like that! How could you?"

She sprang off the couch, hitting him roughly on the shoulder with her new book, and huffed out to the kitchen. The leather bound book lay on the couch between Ron and Harry, like a pile of dragon dung. The remaining family in the room was aghast at her reaction.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Ron remarked at the book next to his lap. "Why did she get so barmy about a cookbook? She loves books."

Harry looked to Ginny then to Molly, who stood at the mantle gobsmacked. Realization dawned on him. Ginny quickly realized the implications also.

"You're really that thick, aren't you?" quipped his sister. She smacked him on the shoulder before taking off after her best friend.

Molly and Fleur started for the kitchen before Harry could speak up. "Now just a minute. Give her a few to get it together."

All eyes looked back to him. Charlie was the first to speak up. "What the blazes Harry?"

All eyes were on him. There was no escape.

"While we were gone, there wasn't much for us to eat once we went on the run. Ron and I weren't much help in the kitchen and it unfortunately fell on Hermione to keep us somewhat fed." He got quiet for a second. "She tried her best, but when you can only scavenge mushrooms and the occasional egg stolen from a farm, what can you do? Even while trying to keep us fed, she did without, trying to keep us –"

Harry went silent for a minute, trying to regain his emotions. She didn't tell him until they were back from Australia that she didn't eat many a day so the two of them could have something. 'Hungry boys were bad enough. Tormented by that damn Horcrux made them almost impossible to cope with,' she said in that conversation. He stole a glance to his right, and saw that Ron was at least ashamed of his antics. He remembered that conversation also, from the chagrin on his face.

"Molly, you remember how malnourished we were when we came home in May. Fleur spent the better part of a month feeding us, but we were in such poor shape even with her efforts. We were on the brink of starvation when we came to Shell Cottage. No, I take that back. Hermione was starving when we landed at Shell Cottage. She did without so we would have more."

Anguish came through the doorway where the door didn't hold back the sound.

Fleur looked at her mother in law, and the rest of the group. A moment of understanding passed between them, and they made their way to the kitchen. Before they left, however, they glared at the men, including Harry.

When they left, Ron uncurled from the couch he tried to hide in. "What'd I do?"

* * *

The two ladies walked into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. The men in the next room didn't need to hear or know what was going on. They sealed it, preventing any further intrusion. On a chair at the end of the table was Hermione, with her head in her hands, weeping at her perceived failure. Ginny was kneeling in front of her, whispering to her.

Ginny looked up from Hermione, and her glare flittered through recognition to comprehension. "That brother of mine is a tosspot!" she spat.

Two heads, muted auburn and platinum blonde, nodded back. "Ronald has the tact of a toad. I don't know where he gets it from," muttered Molly. "That might be Uncle Bilius' influence. He was as sharp as a hammer, that one."

"C'est Ronald. He is not my Beel," said Fleur, like she was pronouncing that the Sun would rise because she said so.

"Obviously Bill knows how to act in front of others," Ginny muttered.

The other two ladies' came to chairs at the end of the table, finding a spot to sit in commiseration. Hermione didn't bother to acknowledge the two older witches who had joined them. All she could do was try to reign back in her emotions, which were overflowing yet again. It was one thing to cry in front of Ginny – even Fleur was fine after everything they had gone through in April - but another in front of Ron's mum. She hated showing weakness, even with current company. Pride warred with frustration.

Ginny was trying to help her, between denigrating the emotional depth of her brother, and the insensitivity of the laughter at her predicament. The only thing that the rest heard from her quiet platitudes was that they didn't understand the situation.

"C'est vrai, 'ermione, we didn't know. I didn't know that you were starving until Ronald brought you to Shell Cottage and I had to heal you. I only realized how bad you were when I had to strip you then heal you. I wanted to do more, but you were hurting so much that you wouldn't eat."

Hermione looked up, into those ice blue eyes of Fleur, then to the warm caramel eyes of Molly. "I'm sorry I did that Molly. I had no right to act that way with such a heart-felt gift from you." She hung her head back in shame at her tantrum.

Molly motioned her daughter to move, and knelt on her wobbly and creaky knees in front of Hermione. "Sush, dear. It's painfully obvious with those two prats in the next room that you were too busy trying to keep them alive that you didn't have time or opportunity to learn the domestic arts. Well, Fleur and I will just have to work on that once you're finished with school."

Molly looked up to her daughter in law, and saw her nodding in agreement. "So, from now until whenever you're comfortable, you are welcome in my kitchen, to learn how to feed a Weasley man. For Ronald, it's considerably easier than the rest of them. Just make a huge portion of whatever you make, and let him eat like it's his last meal. It's not that hard at all."

The peals of laughter were heard in the den. The men could only look at one another in befuddlement.

* * *

Hermione learned quickly that she wasn't such an astute student in the kitchen, not when it came to learning from Molly and Fleur. Try as she may, she couldn't quite get the subtle art of cooking anything more than just functional fare.

In the intervening years, she received a plethora of cookbooks, mostly from Molly and Fleur. Ginny knew better, and would give her the occasional cook book, as a gag mostly since she was not as adept as her own mother in the kitchen. They would laugh at their own perceived shortcomings. They tried to tutor her, but she didn't have a gift for cooking. She spent many an evening in Molly's kitchen, when Ron was out on a mission trip, attempting to learn how to cook for him. Try as she could, she just didn't have a knack for it. Her breads didn't rise, her pie crusts were too hard, and her chickens were dry as a bone.

Ginny had more years to learn, but she still couldn't top her Mum, except when it came to bread making. Her loaves of French, Italian, and sourdough were outstanding.

Neither couldn't top Molly when it came to making delectable desserts, or the moist and juicy hams and roasts that their husbands love. The only category that she excelled over her mother in law was pastas and other sauces for pasta.

Once she introduced her husband to Italian cuisine, she learned that she could now feed him without too many complaints. Her spaghetti was the only thing she could make that received a compliment. She would keep plenty in the cooling cabinet for when her husband was peckish and couldn't wait for her to come home from work.

Her attempts at French cuisine were even worse. At least she didn't come close to burning down the kitchen at Molly's house.


	4. Mum, where did you learn to cook?

Ch. 4 Mum, where did you learn to cook?

"Madame Solicitor, come back to me. Get your brain out of a brief and talk to me."

"Oh, sorry Ginny. I was thinking of Christmas ninety eight when Molly gave me my first cookbook. I nearly blew that one up for us, and instead, it worked out pretty well."

"I know what you mean. I can make a decent meal, but I love coming to Sunday lunch so I can get Mum's cooking. About the only thing I can cook better than Mom is fresh made bread. She still takes the mickey that I bake a better loaf of bread than she does now. Everything else is hit or miss. Try as I may, I'm still not as good as she is. Thank Goodness Harry can't tell that much difference between her Roast Lamb and mine. There is just something about her cooking that I can't replicate."

"I've tried many a time to make Molly quality meals. I've burned too many meals early on to bother trying more than the simple fair that I make for him. I can roast a chicken in the oven or make a huge bowl of spaghetti bolognaise, even being as ambitious as making pot roast, but the complicated meals that Molly does? I just don't have that gift."

"It's that huge dash of love I throw in when I start cooking," said Molly as she was walking out with platter of roasted Ham. "Honestly, it's not hard, just taste and a feeling. Maybe if you two hadn't hung out in my scullery with your eventual spouses so much during the summer you might have learned more. I know you girls try your best, but I think your mind is more on the kids or your books to spend more than necessary to devote to cooking."

The two best friends blushed while enduring such a back-handed compliment. Trust Molly to boil the whole issue down at once. "Gee, Mum. That's just what we needed to hear. Did you hear that? We were too busy shagging our boyfriends and learning to live instead of learning how to cook. Thanks!"

"You're welcome Ginny. Now, let's get the kids and their Dads here before the ham gets too cold."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the summer table was packed with three generations of Weasley and family. Over the years, the table had been expanded from seating the 9 original ones, to the current 25. Platters of Ham and chicken were the centerpieces, along with roasted turnips, various green salads, candied yams, and other tasty treats. The pumpkin juice flowed, along with butterbeer for the men at the table. Even such, the two youngest wives in the group – namely Ginny and Hermione – were the designated runners for the extras in the house. Pitchers of juice, bowls of salad, and creamed potatoes were added to the table when the first ones were emptied by the ravenous hoards.

Once back, the best friends continued their conversation, working through minutiae of book writing. Hermione had already been published four times over, starting with a new revision of Tales of Beedle the Bard. That first publication, written when she was on healer-ordered bed rest with Rose, put her name back in the media spotlight. Her next three, discussing Elf rights, a collection of children's stories, and finally, a legal trieste dealing with the overhaul of Wizarding Law Enforcement laws, made her a media darling where her work as a Solicitor did not.

"So, Aunt Hermione, why don't we come over to your house for dinner one night this next week? Uncle Ron said that you cook Wednesday nights," intoned Victorie from up the table.

A hush went across from all of the adults at the table. "Mummy, why would they want to come to dinner? The only thing you cook well is pasta," chimed in Hugo, not realizing the temerity of his blatant honesty.

"Mummy, where did you learn to cook?" followed Rose right behind him. "Did you learn from Granny? Granny and Gramma Molly cook better than you do."

The adults at the table sat in silence, wondering whether there would be another meltdown similar to Christmas past. The girls were looking at one another, knowing that they weren't going to discuss the year on the run. They kids weren't old enough for that bit of truth. 'The kids won't understand yet.'

"Well, I spent some time in the kitchen with Granny, and Gramma Molly, and Aunt Fleur and Aunt Ginny. Most of the time I had my nose in a book rather than over a stove top. Once I left Hogwarts, I was working full time and studying at night at Oxford. Daddy was working also for Uncle George, and going through the Auror Academy. Neither one of us had much spare time to learn how to cook. Your Gramma Molly was a life saver many a night for us, keeping us fed when neither of us had time or money to get take away from Auntie Hannah at the Leaky Cauldron."

She took a sip of water to temper her words.

"So, unfortunately, about all I do well is pasta and other simple fare. Your Gramma Molly is such a master in the kitchen that the rest of us pale in comparison to her skills. Isn't that right, Aunt Ginny?"

Hermione glanced at Ginny across the table from her, hoping that explanation would suffice for the kids at the table. Ginny picked up where Hermione left off, talking about her five seasons with the Harpies that kept her away from the kitchen most of the time.

Hermione then stole a glance at her husband, further up the table, sitting next to Harry. A smile and wink would have to suffice for the time being, at least until they were behind closed doors.

"So if your mum will allow, you can come Wednesday night for dinner. It might be a salad and spaghetti, but you're welcome for it. Maybe Aunt Ginny can send over some Italian bread for us too."

Victorie looked down at her plate of tossed greens, slices of roast ham, and a mouth-watering chocolate torte sitting in front of her, and smiled. "Merci, Aunt 'ermione. Mere is making Ratatouille for dinner Wednesday night. Maybe next time?"

Hermione smiled, knowing that Victorie loathed her mother's cooking as much as her own. 'She's a silly girl,' thought Hermione over her own salad. 'She loves Gramma Molly's cooking like the rest of the Weasley clan does. It must be that huge dose of magical loving she spoons over everything.'

Ron started gesticulating with his fork and a pile of potatoes on it. "Maybe Mum could – "

He accidently flung the creamed potatoes on his fork, hitting Fleur right on the chin. Gravy and butter landed on her blouse.

Hermione laughed while her husband turned a fabulous shade of fuchsia. Many a face was in shock, including all the kids.

Before she could blink, a spoonful of mashed turnips hit her husband in the face.

* * *

And that was how the first and only time a food fight broke out at a Weasley family brunch.


	5. She's went too far

Ch. 5 She went too far this time

An hour later, with a messy spouse and two even messier children, Ron and Hermione Weasley returned home, worn out from another fantastic Sunday brunch at his parents' house. Ron and the kids were laughing so hard that it was almost impossible to stand up straight. His wife, however, was an entirely different affair.

"Rose, Hugo, go start a bath. Take those dirty clothes off, and I'll be back in the bathroom in a minute. I need to talk with your father."

They saw the look on her face, and scampered from the room without a retort. She heard two doors quickly close.

She held her stern appearance a few seconds longer before falling on the couch laughing hard. Ron joined her in the hilarity. His face was red as a tomato from stifling his laughter in front of the kids.

"Oh G_d, did you see Mum's face? I thought she had turned into a tomato!" bellowed Ron.

"Your poor Dad was in stitches. No wonder why he didn't try to scold you!" giggled Hermione. "I thought Fleur was going to strangle you, getting her new blouse soiled. I hope the gravy stains come out."

Ron was half off the couch from his laughter. "But did you see where I got Charlie with the caramel pudding from my plate? He looked better with it on his face than without it."

"But you looked so dashing with crème corn dripping off of your beard. I thought Percy would get involved before your Mum broke the affair up."

_Tap Tap Tap_

Ron looked up from the couch, trying to restrain his own laughter, when he caught sight of the owl with the red envelope attached to it. "Bloody Hell!"

"What?" inquired Hermione.

"I think Mum finally caught a breath. She sent a howler."

He walked to the window, and took the howler off of Aries' leg. He got a peck for his trouble before the Australian Screech Owl took back off from their window.

"Ruddy bird. You would get them an owl that doesn't like me."

Within seconds, the envelope immolated, and the banshee inspired voice of Molly Weasley could be heard for a city block if their cottage wasn't on twenty acres.

**"Ronald Weasley, I am ashamed of you! Starting a food fight with children present. I am absolutely disgusted with you. You get back here now and apologize to the family for your sordid antics this instant! I raised you better than that! Do not make me come over there and deal with you in person!"**

The howler disintegrated, and he was about to retort to his wife when he spied two sets of blue eyes looking back at him. His wife hadn't noticed yet, but the look of hurt on his kids' faces turned his embarrassment into anger.

"Bloody hell!"

Hermione started to castigate him further for his salty language, but looked at where he was staring. Two sets of beautiful cerulean blue eyes were staring up at them. Her eyes went as wide as a tea saucer. She scurried over to her two children, praying that they didn't hear their grandmother's howler for their Dad.

Hugo looked up, showing the same hang dog eyes that his father was famous for. "Mummy, why was Gramma Molly yelling? What did Daddy do?"

Hermione glanced back over her shoulder at her husband, hoping to stifle his commentary just long enough. She gave him a glare that kept him quiet. "Well, Gramma Molly is mad because Daddy accidently threw food at Aunt Fleur. She's probably mad because then Bill threw some creamed corn back at him, along with Uncle Charlie throwing food at Daddy too."

"But that was funny Mummy."

"Hugo, you know that throwing food at someone is wrong. Mummy said so," quipped Rose sounding dreadfully similar to her grandmother. "You've been put in time out when you threw food."

"It was still funny, seeing Uncle Bill throwing food at Daddy and Daddy throwing it back at him."

"It's still wrong and you know it," Rosie huffed. "Don't you listen to Mummy when she's talking about food at the table? She said that there are plenty of hungry people who would love our leftovers. We shouldn't waste food like that."

Hermione blushed, remembering that she scolded Rose a year prior for throwing away half a sandwich and a half eaten bag of crisps. There were times that her year on the run still haunted her and made her life a bit more problematic.

"But Gramma shouldn't have yelled at Daddy. It was an accident." Hugo seemed confused. "You said accidents happen and that if you say you sorry it's better."

"Gramma Molly is probably mad because we came home after the food fight instead of staying and helping clean up. That's probably it Hugo."

She glanced back, looking for any comprehension on her husband's face. All she saw were swirling storm clouds through his expression. He was fighting to keep his temper in check. His weakness was coping with humiliation. Being friends for twenty years on top of their marriage made her comprehension of Ron Weasley apparent. Learning to read Ronald Weasley and study him intimately made her understanding of his persona better, comprehending him so there would be less communication problems.

"Dear, why don't I stay here with the kids and give them a bath? I'll talk with Hugo and see if I can explain to him why throwing food is wrong, but accidents happen and being yelled at for them is wrong too. You go back to the Burrow and see about your Mum. How does that sound?"

He heard what she was really saying underneath it all. _You go and deal with Mum. We'll stay out of your way._

She hadn't changed in years. If anyone could explain to the kids, it was her. His brilliant wife, defusing the situation before it became a problem for the kids, was protecting them the best way she knew how. They didn't need to hear the row that was about to happen. Hermione learned her lesson about her husband years ago. She didn't need to see a repeat performance from her husband with his mother.

He looked at her, and nodded. A quick hand signal – I love you – and he turned back to their fireplace.

He stepped to the fireplace, and threw in power, calling out his parent's home


	6. Mum, we need to talk

Ch. 6 Mum, We need to talk

Ron landed in his parent's den, dusting soot and grime from his jacket. He wanted to deal with this for some time, especially now that his wife knew what not to do. It had been bad enough to get humiliated at work, even if it was because of her flighty secretary, but to take it from his Mum in front of the kids? That was going too far. He needed to engage this fight, once in for all. He regretted the necessity in the first place.

He stepped into the kitchen, and didn't see Mum. Dad would wait, but he needed to deal with her now before his temper got the best of him. Dad would understand, as long as he didn't put his size 13 feet in his mouth.

He looked out, and saw her with the rest of his siblings outside. No one else seemed to have left. Thankfully, the kids were out in the field playing while the adults were still at the table talking. _Owe for a knut, pay a whole Galleon._ A few quick breaths later, and he strolled out of the kitchen door confidently walking up to his parents.

"There you are! About time you got back here. Now clean – "

"Mum, let's talk inside."

"But you still have to – "

"Mum, I asked you to come inside so we can talk. Please." He said even more quiet.

"You will apologize to everyone right now before I move."

He glanced at his siblings and gave them a look. Dad, at the end of the table, knew that look. He wasn't about to interfere unless there was bloodshed. With his wife and youngest son, that might be entirely possible. They were both so high-strung.

"Mum, we need to talk, inside."

She crossed her arms on her chest, trying to stand up just a touch further than her five foot two frame. "You didn't apologize," she huffed.

He turned, and strode back to the house. He knew she would follow, especially when he was being quiet and restrained. That wasn't him, her volatile son. He was loud, impolite, and rude bordering on occasionally cruel, but never quiet and polite.

He grabbed a glass of water from the counter in the kitchen, and went into the Parlor to wait. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long. She wasn't like his beloved Hermione, who would tear into him in a fight, going toe to toe with him, then be stubborn enough to not talk to him for a week if she thought she was right. She wasn't like his sister either, who never walked away from a fight to save her life, right or wrong. He knew for years his mum would occasionally stoop to being a bully to get her way, and for the most part, he could handle her tirades. Today was the last straw.

"Ronald?" he heard her voice echo through the house. He would wait. He had to. His integrity demanded it.

"There you are. Now get back out there and apologize."

"No." It was quiet, yet full of conviction.

"Excuse me, but did you just tell me – "

"I said no, Mum, and I mean no. I'm not apologizing again."

"I don't know who you think you are, but that isn't the way I raised you. You have a lot of nerve acting this way in front of your family."

He turned around, seeing the flush on her face, and the hands on her hips.

"I'm tired of you treating me like I'm still five years old," he said quietly. He fought down the rising temper in his voice, quashing it finally. "I'm sick of it. You disrespected me in front of my wife and children, and right now, Hermione is trying to stem the damage."

He looked, and she could have been a statue. She was rooted to the spot she stood at, trying to find a comeback.

"You taught us to honor and respect you, and I have done that. I apologized almost immediately, and told you what we were going to do – take the kids home and get them cleaned up, then return. I never ran off and left a mess. You assumed, and thought you could bully me for it. Well, I'm done with it."

_Breathe, he thought. You can do this. Breathe._

"I earned the Howler you sent when I was 12 by stealing the family car and flying with Harry to Hogwarts. I deserved it. But damn it, I'm not twelve now. I'm 32, and I will not tolerate you treating me that way anymore." He continued, trying to keep the emotions in check a little while longer. Fighting with his wife was one thing, but Mum was another. "It's one thing to yell at me in front of the family. But you will not do that in front of my kids again. If you want to yell at me again, we do it in here, where no one else can hear it. Are we clear?"

He stood there, trying not to glare at his mum. She was like his wife, but even she crossed the line on occasion. If he wasn't fighting so hard, he would have already passed out from the sheer mental exhaustion. He couldn't wait much longer.

"Fine then," he growled. "If you can't respect me, and treat me like an adult then I'm going home. We will deal with this some other day."

He turned to take his glass back to the kitchen before he left. They might have their differences, but he was still Ron Weasley, and he needed time to get his head screwed on straight before seeing his beloved family. He wouldn't take his frustrations out on his kids, nor his beloved wife.

"Wait." It was barely above a whisper, and if he hadn't been straining, he wouldn't have heard it. It's funny, but even on occasion, Molly Weasley could be quiet. "You're right. I was out of line, and that was uncalled for."

Ron turned back to his mum, who was still standing in the doorway to the parlor.

"I didn't hear you apologize to the family when it happened, and I didn't realize that you were intending to come back after the kids were cleaned up. I assumed that you took the kids and left because you didn't want to deal with the mess."

He walked back to her, taking her liver spotted, wrinkled hand in his, and brought her to the couch. He sat her down, and then sat down next to her, crumpling her hand woven afghan. "I might have run away when I was fourteen, and I certainly did when I was eighteen, but that changed the first time I couldn't rescue Hermione. I nearly lost her then, and I wasn't going to be that way any further if I could help it. She nearly paid the price for my own stupidity."

He looked at her, intensifying his gaze. "I passed out the day that Hermione told me I was going to be a Daddy. Once I came to, I said I wouldn't abandon my family. Since that day, I've not. Sure there have been many a night I've slept on the couch, but I won't walk out on them. Hermione is still my everything. My kids mean the world to me."

He looked up, and saw the understanding on her face. "I guess I shouldn't call you my boy anymore. My son sitting in front of me is certainly a man in his own right. You have been for years, and I didn't recognize it. I'm sorry I didn't realize it until now."

Ron leaned over, and gave his mum one of his massive hugs. Even as the curvy as she was, she was dimutive in his massive embrace. "Love you Mum."

"Love you too, Son. I'm sorry I berated you."

"Don't be. Just pick the right place and time. Poor Hugo didn't understand. He had Rosie Posie and Hermione lecturing him." He grinned, giving her his patented lop sided grin. "Poor kid's gonna need a mind healer after that."

Molly dabbed at the corner of her eye with her well-hidden handkerchief. "Well, get on home and take care of your family. I'll see you next weekend."

"Thanks Mum," as he stood up from the couch to make his way back home to his own family. "I'll have Hermione come by tomorrow with the kids so they can have a play day with their cousins."

"That would be lovely. I'll apologize tomorrow."

"Thanks Mum. I appreciate it."


	7. So that's Why you

Ch 7 So that's why we….

Hermione fell back on the bed, covered in sweat and heart pounding away in her chest. Her throat was sore from yelling so much, and it felt raw from the expletives that passed her lips recently. Her best friend, her lover, her husband lay half on her, having collapsed moments earlier.

Ron lifted his sweaty head from the pillow, still flushed and panting from exertion. "Bloody Hell, woman, you wore me out today! What's got into you?"

After Fred's funeral years prior, she never complained that her husband was larger than life. She loved his lanky mass crushing her into the warmth of the bedclothes, making her feel safe in no other way. She only loved the moments of utter emotional intimacy that followed more than the mind blowing sex. "I seem to recall that you got into me just now," she cheeked. "I didn't hear you complaining about it either."

"When could I? The moment I got in the door, you threw me into the wall burning my lips with a kiss. Before I realized the kids were nowhere to be seen, you were on your knees in front of me. What gives?

Hermione blushed from what prompted her aggressive behavior tonight. He needed to know why regardless how much the information embarrassed her. Their relationship and marriage were built daily on open communication and trust. She also worked hard to give him the respect he needed and earned. Deep inside of his core, where no one else would bother to look now, was a little boy with dirt on his nose who wanted to prove himself to the world outside of his brother's long shadow.

It took years until he realized she was his first cheerleader, and willing to fight his mother for him. Their relationship was better once he understood she forsook all others to marry him.

Bill is the famous curse breaker, now a director at Gringott's. Then there is Charlie, the Dragon Wrangler. Percy is a Director in the Ministry. Fred – Ron's Hero - is still toasted to this day. George, the Inventor, is the face of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. His shops dot three continents now. Ginny – star chaser for the Holyhead Harpies and English Quidditch Hero – brought home the 2002 Quidditch World Cup home to England with her MVF performance. Three kids and ten years later, she is still chased for magazine covers. Her lesser known accolade was marrying Harry Potter.

Ron certainly lived up and surpassed his siblings in so many ways.

Ron Weasley – co-owner of WWW, inventor, and owner of rather lucrative patents. Captain Ron Weasley, Auror and associate supervisor of the Auror Corps. Ron Weasley, along with his wife and best friend, graced the front of a Chocolate Frog card – one of the youngest Wizards ever. Ron Weasley, icon to the next generation of underage wizards who wanted to just like him – a hero.

Ron Weasley, the self-doubting prat, who listened to evil and was stupid to believe the lies. Ron Weasley, the self-identifying traitor, for walking out on his best friends when they needed him. Ron Weasley, the coward, for not protecting his hero from getting killed in the middle of a battle.

Those moments, when the two sides of Ron Weasley warred with one another, made Hermione question her efforts to bolster her husband's self-esteem and self-worth. It hurt her when he was occasionally gripped with self-doubt. Those moments, growing fewer and far between, made her feel a failure because he was still susceptible to them. Those feelings never lasted. She rededicated her efforts, fighting with him and for him. Her best friend needed nothing less than her best.

Whenever he came close to stumbling, reliving those moments of despair and failure, she took over, and reminded him, through energetic and passionate lovemaking, that she chose him, that she forgave him, that she loved him, that she married him.

Today was not that day. Today was Caesar returning to Rome in Triumph – or Harry surviving Riddle a third time.

Ron rolled onto his back, taking his wife with him. He settled into his pillow, ginger on gold. The hair on his body stood out brilliantly against the muted gold sheets. The flush on his cheeks down his chest added to the burst of color.

"You're my best friend. I know you. If you were dealing with Mum, I knew something would happen. So I waited. Arthur sent an owl letting me know when Molly came out of the house. You also took longer to get home than I anticipated. When you didn't return immediately, I thought you might take a walk to clear your head. The look on your face when you walked through the door told me something had changed. It was relief, and victory."

The heat radiating from his freckled coated skin warmed her like the lust she felt earlier from him. She looked over at him, watching the blood flow through the artery in his neck, beating in time with his heart. The skin on his was unbroken where she had a scar, long since healed and pain free. It didn't keep her from running a finger over his skin, feeling the beat from it.

"If you had the best day of your life, I knew you'd still be conflicted, even if the kids didn't see it. You always are when dealing with Molly. So, I took charge and rode the Quidditch king to victory. I didn't think you'd mind in the least tonight."

"Hell no, you barmy wench. I love it. You can treat me like a lolly any time. I'm just curious why you blew me off while the kids were awake. You've not been that daring since we had Rose."

Hermione traced her finger down his neck onto his slowly cooling chest, feeling the miniscule hairs stand up in her wake. His continual auror training kept him lean and limber and powerful. Under her nail she felt the muscles twitch and watched them dance under her ink stained finger tips. Goose bumps broke out in her wake.

"Pure selfishness really. I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you. It was a prime opportunity to blow your mind in the best possible way. Rose had her nose in a book and wouldn't hear us out of the room for ten minutes. Hugo was down for a nap and it was just dumb luck that he woke up a few minutes after we finished. It'd also mean that you wouldn't be impatient tonight, right?"

Ron looked down at his wife while she was tracing her nail across his nips in a figure eight pattern. Their first night together, she learned that he was extraordinarily sensitive afterwards – much like she was after her first moan. He loved making her moan his name, then taking the volume higher each time. Tonight was no different. 'Thank Merlin for Magic and the strength of Auror grade silencing spells. The kids don't need to know that their Mum is a screamer.'

"Honey, you can ride my broom anytime. You'll never hear me complain."

Hermione laid her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat while she continued to trace her fingers down his waist. Training and her cooking kept him lean. His mum's meals, which would last her three days if she ate like her husband, kept him with a normal instead of concave stomach. His stash of sweets, which he fought her on daily, kept him happier.

She ran her fingers through the ample ginger hairs below his navel, threading more fingers into his lower abdomen. The coarse hairs felt exquisite, even matted with sweat and sex. Between his mum and wife, along with his chocolate cookie rations, he was in prime health, physically and sexually. He demonstrated it tonight, enduring from her low moans to her high pitched screams before he finished as well.

"Hermione?"

"Yes love?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"The day of Fred's funeral."

Hermione stilled her hands, leaving one on his hip and the other on his hair covered thigh. Her continued silence was her question.

"Why that day? Why not wait until the trip to Australia? Or after you finished school? I know it was murder while we were apart that year. I loved your letters while I was away at training camp, since they kept me focused on what I was working for. But I also read what you weren't telling me – the detachment, the nightmares, the emotional outbursts, the time spent in McGonagall's office for the private healer sessions."

Hermione quit breathing. Ron rarely asked her what happened those cold lonely nights away from one another. Most of the time, she hemmed and hawed to brush him off. Some things were only meant for Ginny and Luna. How could you explain something that was a feeling, wrapped in emotion, tempered in pain?

'To hell with hiding' she quietly thought. She looked up from his abdomen, and saw his blue eyes staring back at her. In the low lights of their room, they looked like the finest sapphires, much like the ones on her fingers. He first surprised her with the engagement ring. He gave it to her at Christmas in front of his family. It was like her, so he said: delicate, petite, and absolutely beautiful. That ring never came off. He later said that he spent every knut he made while working for George his first year – which was a tidy sum – saying she was worth every knut he would ever earn. She cherished it most of all. This new ring, one of which she wore most days, was exquisite also. A diamond and blue sapphire anniversary band wasn't cheap either. She cried in front of the family, tears of joy that were shared by the wives. When she muttered why, he made her cry more. "I wanted you to have a proper anniversary gift. Twenty years of being friends should mean something."

She crawled back up his torso, settling her comfortably roomy hips on his, not bothering to hide what they both already knew and loved about one another. At 32, and two kids, her body was not what it was at 19. She was thankful for that. His wasn't either. She was thankful for that too.

"How much do you remember about that day, love? I mean, really remember about it."

"I remember shagging you for the first time, then again later that night. Not much else really. Why?"

She looked down, taking his hands, and putting them on her hips. Normally, she didn't mind when his fingers wandered to her bum, rubbing circles on her sensitive skin. This time wasn't it. She wanted him calm and focused.

"You don't remember the flower display you put around Kingsley's neck at the service?"

A flicker of recognition passed over his face. "Vaguely. I remember being upset."

"Do you remember that you were doing it wandlessly, or that you were displaying raw unrestrained, undisciplined magic?"

Another spark flashed in his eyes. "Vaguely. That day is so fuzzy."

"When I caught up to you on the fence at the front of the house, you were crying."

Mortification rolled across his face.

"You told me to come follow you, and we apparated into the house. I sealed the rest of the house above the ground floor. I didn't know what you were going to do. Each step I took up the stairs was shaky. Your unrestrained raw magic was threatening to tear the house down on us."

"I don't remember that."

"I know. You were so broken, raw, that you needed an outlet for your emotional chaos. When I caught up with you, you were destroying your room with your bare hands. You were well along when I stopped you."

Hermione took his hands, the ones that her own would get lost in, and placed them on her ample yet less perky breasts. His hands were a miracle unto themselves – powerful, gentle, calloused, and loving. The dichotomy of them never ceased to amaze her, even after so many years of friendship and love. He could wield magic that only Harry could handle, and yet those same hands held his newborn children like the treasure they are. His hands rescued strangers in danger on more than one occasion, getting burned, cut, broken, and yet they were the same ones that give unspeakable pleasure to her.

The heat from his hands sensitized her. She flinched when he rolled her nipples in them out of habit. She put her hands back on top of them, to cease his movements, and to quiet his touch. "I knew that you were like a phoenix on the inside, ready to immolate. Your teaspoon melted, and the replacement shot glass shattered from what you were experiencing. I'm not surprised that you had to find something to destroy."

Her husband looked lost in his own memories.

"I first loved you when you belched slugs for me twenty years ago. I fell in love with you well before the farce known as the Yule Ball. I went with my best friends, the ones I loved and was willing to die for, to try and save our world. Somehow, we did it, and paid a terrible price for victory: in sanity, in tears, in blood, and family." Hermione took a deep breath. "My best friend needed me, and He needed saving. When you went up the stairs, I chose to follow you. I accepted that there might be consequences. I thought you could hurt me terribly, whether physically or from a broken heart. I hoped it wouldn't happen, but there was no guarantee. What happened surprised me nonetheless."

Hermione felt the silence of the room, and heard the machinations of her husband's thoughts. What she used to call an emotional teaspoon was considerably wrong. It took years of marriage to realize he did think, and thought deeply. He had trouble articulating as well as she could. When he did, he was clumsy and coarse, and occasionally cruel, but brutally honest as he saw it. When she quit overthinking about what he said, and just listened, they actually understood one another.

"So you're telling me that you were prepared for anything I might do."

"Yes," she whispered.

"I could have laid my hands on you in anger, and you would have accepted it."

She blushed in surprise. "I doubt that you would have done that, but yes, I probably would have. I'll never know. You've never laid a hand on me in anger."

"I could have screamed at you like the fight after the ball, and you would have taken it."

"Yes, I would have. The only time I wouldn't have fought back. My boyfriend needed me."

Ron was quiet, thinking, while tapping his dexterous digits on her pebbled nipples. Just sitting like this was a torturous temptation for Hermione. "Were we by then? Your boyfriend, what I mean."

She looked down at her husband, letting the strands of her sweat soaked frizzy hair tickle his collarbone. She chuckled, shaking those same strands across his skin. "You might not have, but I was ready to be your girlfriend for two years. Hearing you while I was writhing on the floor kept me sane, gave me a reason to keep breathing. Seeing your beautiful blue eyes when I awoke from that last nightmare was worth the pain of twice broken ribs."

He blanched. "I did that, didn't I?"

"You did, but that was fine. Feeling that pain meant I was alive. Realizing why I was hurting meant I was sane. I didn't question until much later how much that murderer put me through, trying to break me. She chose me, to break me, trying break you. It nearly worked. I hated Draco for being a coward – he's barely worth the pity I feel for him – but my hatred for him was outweighed by my love for you. You kept me there, willing me to take that next breath. I had to protect Harry – there was no choice there – but I chose to protect you. If that had meant my death, I would have gladly done so."

He flushed again, remembering that conversation they had that cold May morning in his parent's dining room. That admission, the first time made in front of his family before she crumbled, changed the dynamic of their friendship completely. It was the first morning he realized she was what he needed: a living example of courage.

"The day of Fred's funeral, you told me –"

"I did. I thought I knew what you needed. You needed me, but you also needed forgiveness and understanding. No one else could give that to you."

Ron removed his hands from her breasts, moving them to the tops of her thighs. "You don't? I practically – "

"Bollocks and you know it. I told you to take me. What happened was inevitable. It wasn't like we weren't already as close as lovers by then. You needed me in every way. It was only a matter of time before we made love and I don't regret anything that day. I never have and never will."

Ron turned a fabulous shade of Weasley Red at his comment. Watching her bleeding slowly to death while Bill and Fleur rushed to save her life wasn't how he wanted to see her tits and bits for the first time. Holding her hand while she slept the first three days on their arrival wasn't how he originally imagined sleeping with her the first time. Hearing her cry in residual pain was the last thing he wanted to hear when he said "I love you." Feeling her impossible warmth and caress when she sacrificed her body to keep his sanity wasn't how he wanted to make love to her for the first time.

Hermione leaned into his face, taking his hands and placing them on her face. Her eyes never left his, shielding their world with her hair. She pressed her aching lips to his, conveying everything he meant to her in one scorching kiss, cut short by her personal litany, just for him. Her endearment was for his ears only, for his heart and soul, never for another. "You're my best friend. I chose you. Always. I choose you. Forever."

Ron pulled her face into his, crushing her lips to his. He reciprocated her passion. He wanted her again in every way she could give. 'Not yet,' said the little voice in his head he trusted most. He pulled out of the kiss this time. Cerulean eyes looked upon extra dark chocolate ones. "Hermione."

She couldn't look anywhere else, except in her husband's eyes. "Yes Love?"

"Do you regret how that happened? We should have had months, to learn one another, working our way to what happened. It's like we did everything backwards."

She leaned down to kiss him again, leaving rows in his scalp before pulling his hair slightly. He growled in appreciation for the feeling she gave him. He twitched in response.

"We were friends before we kissed."

"Well, sure."

She flicked her tongue out, running it along the edges of his lips, tasting the testosterone laced sweat on his upper lip. She nudged his nose with hers, trying to coax a playful eyeful from him. "You wanted me for a while, if I remember."

"I did," he replied back.

"I seem to remember that you wanted me so fucking bad," she cheeked.

His hands slid from her face, down her body to her arse. A firm squeeze on her bum told her all. "I want you every day and every way. That hasn't changed in almost twenty years."

She leaned forward, exposing her neck to his ministrations while she kissed his brow. His lips were a deadly weapon. The things they did to her and for her should be illegal. "What made you to realize I was your world?"

He growled, understanding where this was finally going. 'How'd she know I was dealing this? Brightest witch of her age lives up to the billing.'

He nipped her skin, tasting salt and vanilla. "That day in April when I knew I'd die without you at my side, or if you broke without knowing how I felt about you. That bastard -"

"What did I tell you when I woke from my nightmare," she moaned, barely coherent, "the one thing that kept you sane in camp and at work?"

It was the worst day of his life to that point. For three days, she woke the house with screams, reliving her waking nightmare. Three days she cried because she hurt terribly – even through the pain potions. His name off of her lips while she was stuck in a nightmare. Three days when he wondered if she was still sane.

Only when Hermione woke the fourth morning did he hear the words that healed his soul.

That unfortunately was eclipsed four weeks later. May 2, 1998 was his Worst Day.

An Epiphany hit him like a bludger. It wasn't even Fred. That was rotten too. It was seeing the furrows on Bill's face that broke his control. The monster's taunts echoed through his mind. Taunts that would be only echos for the rest of their lives.

He remembered that moment. She stood there that fateful day in May, four days later, while his emotions roared out of control. She embraced his actions, never protesting beyond half-hearted ones. She was his shining example of courage.

"Hermione," he growled through his teeth as they sunk into the sensitive skin of her neck at the crux of her shoulder. "No one but me, damn it!" he muttered through his lips. The one taunt from Greyback echoed in his mind, while he had the monster in his hands, seconds before he perished by Neville's destructive blast. 'When I kill you, I will fuck her to death. She's my prize, Ginger.'

The first time he did this was the day she gave herself to him. He marked her, claiming her for his prize.

The second time, that night after his parents were asleep and their room was sealed, did he do so again at her request. Greyback haunted her memories as well. That one spot above all else drove her mad with lust. "Mark me. Only you. No one else," she whispered in his ear, only for his ears. He did as she begged, and she dug those petite, short nailed ink stained fingers into his arms. That night, she left bruises. Over the years, those nails left more marks than Ron could count. Each one was worth it. "Mine!" he whispered.

His bite wasn't enough to draw blood, much less hurt, but to mark her as his own. A murderer scarred her neck above where he bit, but this was the one that she never let heal. Each time, it reminded him of the blood pooled at the base of her neck, where it bled from the wound.

She insisted that he do this, to remove the memories of that horrible day, and replace them with his own ministrations. "I'm yours!" she would whisper each time he found that one spot, the one he would claim every so often. Sometimes, it stayed so bruised that she had to cover it for everyone. The only ones who knew were Ron, Ginny and Luna, and her healer. Not even Harry was privy to this small bit of intimacy.

He remembered that moment, along with the one on the first of many best and bad days of his life. There was never another day that eclipsed 2 May 1998.

That was the first of many bad and best days of his young life.

For every bad day, he came home to a bushy haired, swotty mouthed know it all, and she gave him a reason to make it the best day of his life. She was worth living for, and giving his world for her. The baubles on her hands were a small price to pay for continued sanity and believing that people were inherently good. She inspired him, fighting against evil, and helped him realize the battle never truly ended.

"Say it!" she pleaded.

"I forgive you."

She rolled them on their king sized platform bed, feeling his weight press her into the warm rumpled bedclothes. Coherent thought went out the window when it came to her magnificent king coming home to claim his reward.

"OgdRon" she groaned all the way to her toenails. The sounds bounced around the cavernous room. 'I chose you.'


	8. Happy Christmas Hermione

Happy Christmas Hermione

* * *

**A/N:** This story is dedicated to my Muse - my Bibliophile Aunt who gets first dibs on anything I write - and tells me when a story needs work - and **Fangirling4Life** - who requested something mushy sweet and fluffy for Christmas. Here is what I came up with - and I hope it's well received. Merry Christmas to all, and to all, Good Cheer!

* * *

Ron stood in the doorway to their modest library. In any other home, it would be a small fourth bedroom, maybe for a baby or an unexpected guest. For his brilliant yet barmy wife, it was her library. This was her personal sanctuary, when the world got too much for her to bear, or she needed a place to research and study, away from the chaos only kids could cause.

She was asleep at her desk yet again, her face gracing another legal tome, of what didn't matter. The presents for the kids were snuggled under the tree, along with the few from the remainder of the family. Most would be shared with them at the Burrow later today, but this morning, safe and warm at home, their family came first.

What his wife didn't know was that there was a special one under the tree now, just for her. One that he knew she would love him forever for – at least until next year. He took pride in finding that one gift that would make her speechless. Some years, he was successful, like Christmas 1999 when he presented to her, on bended knee in front of the entire family, proposing to his then-girlfriend. Her parents were there, now part of the Weasley gathering annually, and he even asked Fred first before buying the ring that now adorned her finger. The small fortune he spent on such a ring – magic included – was a small price to pay for marrying his best friend and love of his life.

He wasn't successful ever year. That Christmas was a special one. The books were always appreciated, but never well enough to make her speechless, or shed tears of joy. The trip to the Med for the two of them was well rewarded, but the kitchen appliances were frowned upon.

This year, he received help from the entire family, having planned out this gift and the details behind it for months. He needed that long to coordinate with the family on their contributions to it. As usual, they turned out magnificently.

He padded into the library, moving his wife's hair from her face. A kiss on her ear was enough to make her stir from her slumber.

"Ron?"

"It's midnight on Christmas. You need to be in bed."

"What?"

"You fell asleep in your legal reading again."

"Oh."

She looked up at her husband, finding his smile. Out went her arms, and he picked her up as he was want to do. "You smell so good."

"That would be the piece of cake I had a little while ago."

She snuggled into his maroon jumper we wore over his t-shirt. Chocolate wafted from it. He might be a mighty auror, but he still needed a snack before bed so he could sleep all night.

"Smells so good on you."

"Everything wrapped?"

"Sure is. The bikes are assembled and under the tree too."

"Such a wonderful husband."

"Only for you, dear."

He tiptoed to their bedroom, keeping quiet near the kid's bedrooms. They would be up early enough as it is, since it was Christmas.

He felt her shift in his arms, planting a kiss on his neck and his jaw.

"Ron," she whispered for his ears only, "I'm not so sleepy anymore."

"Anything in mind, love?"

He felt her snuggle further into his arms while he maneuvered them into their bedroom. A handful of ink stained nails across his chest was enough of an answer.

"I think that can be arranged," he intoned back.

A giggle from his wife was all that he needed.

* * *

"Daddy."

A not so gentle poke in his arm was enough to make him open his eyes. Through the fog of exhaustion he saw his son, bright eyed in his pajamas. "Daddy, it's Christmas!"

He grinned, seeing the joy on his son's face. Nothing brought him more glee than seeing Hugo excited for another morning. He was like his mother that way.

"Where's Rosie?"

"Still 'seep. Only I wake and wanted you to see what Santa brought."

"Santa brought toys?"

Hugo nodded only like he could – energetic like his daddy; bouncing bushy auburn hair like his mum.

"Well, let's go see what Santa brought for us!"

Ron unlimbered out of bed, noticing his wife's brown eyes watching them surreptitiously from her pillow. One smile from her, and she closed her eyes to drift back to sleep.

They tried to be quiet in the bedroom but his son was just too excited to stay that way. "Hurry, Daddy!"

"Let me grab my robe."

"Daddy!"

They left the bedroom, with Ron closing the door. This morning was his wife's opportunity to sleep in, even if she would be up in a couple more hours to make breakfast for them. The only time she seemed to sleep past her normal half five was when she was up late. That certainly was the case this morning.

They tiptoed past Rosie's room, and there was the marvel as the Weasley Christmas tree. Fairy lights competed with the muggle ones that Hermione insisted on for now. Popcorn was strung along the branches, tinsel and ornaments as well. Under the tree was a plethora of presents, in various papers and bags.

"Look Daddy!"

"I see all of it. Santa was great, wasn't he?"

"Can I open them now?"

Ron stood there, towering over his son who looked in anticipation. He scooped up his son, blowing a kiss on his neck. Giggles followed.

"We have to save some for later, so Mummy and RosiePosie can watch too."

"Awwww."

"But it couldn't hurt to open one each now, before I start breakfast."

Hugo started squirming in his arms, frantic to go find one of his own to open. "Lemme down Daddy!"

Ron opened his arms, catching Hugo right before his feet hit the floor. "Gotcha!"

Giggles and squeals bounced around the den of their cottage.

Hugo ran for the pile under the tree, finding the biggest box he could. _Rattle, rattle, rattle_. "I got one," he declared.

"Well, go on, tear into it."

Ron plopped down on the floor in front of the couch, watching his son tear into the huge box covered in metallic reds and greens and gold. Ron sat there grinning, watching his son work through it. Like his Mum, his brow furrowed, focused and determined while he worked. He knew what was inside – having kenneled the puppy a few hours prior – and leaving the bottom of the crate open for the puppy's benefit.

Paper flew everywhere while Hugo struggled to unwrap his present. He found the lid, and plopped it open. "Oh Wow! Daddy! Look!"

Hugo sat up on his knees, and lifted the puppy out of the box.

Grins abounded, and barking commenced. "A Puppy!"

Feet pounded down the hall of their cottage. There stood six year old Rosie, half asleep, hair a mess like her Mum, and just as wide eyed as her younger brother. "You got us a puppy?"

"Sure did, RosiePosie."

The Jack Russell terrier barked with appreciation at the kids who were now playing with him. "What's his name Daddy?"

"I thought we could call him Otter."

The kids grinned before turning back to the playful terrier. "If you want, we can go pick up his brother later today."

"Another one?"

"Sure. If I had brought both of them home, they would have been barking all night and gave away the surprise."

"Yipee!" cried the kids in glee.

Ron noticed movement from the corner of his eye, and saw his wife standing at the doorway to the den, watching the kids voices echo through the house.

"I see that Daddy gave you the best surprise."

"He said we can have one more."

"He's right, but you also have to help take care of them."

"We will Mummy!"

Four arms hugged Hermione, then leapt on Daddy and hugged him around the neck.

"We love you Daddy!"

Ron looked up, grinning like a kneazle in the creamery.

"Alright, let's open presents!"

* * *

While the kids were tucking into breakfast of fried eggs and rashers, with scones and toast and tea, Ron watched his wife nibble on her bowl of porridge with fruit and crème. No matter what he tried, he still couldn't convince her to eat a hardier breakfast.

"Hermione?"

She looked up from the Daily Prophet in front of her, the cooling cup of coffee next to her.

"There's one more present to open."

"Really?"

She turned back around, looking at the bottom of the Christmas tree in their den. Toys and trash lay everywhere, and the puppies were asleep on the red felt blanket under the tree.

"I thought we got all of the presents opened."

"We did – the ones under the tree, that is."

"So where is it?"

Ron grinned, finally enjoying the surprise.

"Hugo, buddy, can you go get Mummy's present. She never opened her best gift."

Hugo flashed his own snaggle toothed smile, and jumped off his chair to go get the last present.

Her smile betrayed the annoyance in her voice. "Where did you hide it this time, Ronald?"

"I didn't hide it. Hugo did."

Hugo rustled in the tree, bringing back a small box covered in printed paper.

Hermione looked at the present, adorned with ribbon and a bow. She looked closer and saw that the wrapping paper was pages from a book.

She stared in horror at Ron. "You destroyed a book to wrap my present?"

He smirked. "Of course not. Far from it. That book wrapping was from a tattered book that Flourish and Botts was tossing out. I asked them if I could have it, and paid them for it."

Hermione stood there looking rather cross. "Well? I'm waiting."

"Just open the card on the front of the package."

She looked down, and there lay a card, embossed with the Waterstone's logo on the outside. "Ronald Weasley, what have you done?"

His smirk grew wider.

She delicately opened the card, reading the inside.

"For Hermione, Much love,"

And on the inside were scribbles, crayon signatures, and glitter. Embossed on the inside of the card lay signatures of the entire family, along with Drs. Hugo and Jean Granger.

She looked up, and was speechless. "Well, go on, you barmy witch. Open it."

She looked down at the parcel in her hands, and delicately opened it.

The kids sat at the table, watching Mum slide her butter knife under the decorative tape, cutting along the seams of the package.

"Mum, hurry up!" whined the kids from the other side of the table.

Ron saw it first, a small shake of her left hand. "Rose, go help your mum. I think she's too excited to open the package properly."

Rose slide out of her seat and made her way to the other side. Small fingers helped take the paper off, followed by removing the rest the tape from the diminutive black box.

Hermione opened it, and inside lie a black digital tablet, embossed with the word Kindle.

"Ron!"

"I saw you looking at them the last time we were in Waterstone's, and so I had your Mum pick it up for me. The entire family gave us suggestions for the contents of the walking library at your fingertips. The magical titles are in there, courtesy of Dad and Mum, and Ginny also loaded a selection of her favorites as well."

Hermione turned the digital reader on, and her eyes grew as wide as a house elf's. Tears trickled out of her eyes, and she began to sniff. The black tablet was softly shaking in her hands.

"Your Dad was kind enough to load about a hundred titles on it, and everyone chipped in on either a title for purchase, or helped to purchase it. It was my idea, but the whole family wanted you to have it."

She looked up, and her beautiful brown eyes were bloodshot.

"Hermione, all of us remember that disastrous First Christmas. I remember you hitting me with the cookbook when I laughed at Mum's gift. All of us wanted you to have something really special, one you can take anywhere at any time, and not hurt your back lugging around."

"Oh Ron!"

Hermione took three steps to her husband, embracing him in a tremendous hug.

"Daddy, is mummy unhappy?"

"Oh no, Hugo. Those are tears of joy."

Ron looked down, and his wife's untamed bed head was nodding in agreement.

"Daddy laughed one Christmas years past at the gift Mummy got from Gramma Molly. It was a cookbook, and Mummy was unhappy when Daddy laughed at her for receiving it. She didn't forgive daddy for a few days for him being insensitive and laughing at her. So now, I hope this makes up for it."

He felt her nodding again, hugging him even harder.

"Mummy loves reading, but is so busy with her work and researching that she doesn't have as much time as she would like for pleasure reading. So, I thought that if she had her personal library at her fingertips, along with having her other legal research accessible too, she might have time to do more and spend it out of a book."

He looked down at their kids, bright blue eyes looking up at him in wonder and awe. He grinned back. "Now Mummy can have her library with her while we're out at the park playing, or with us at Gramma Molly's house or at Grampa Granger's house. How's that sound kids?"

Squeals and giggles resonated through the home.

Hermione unlocked her hands from her husband's waist, looking up at his bright blue eyes.

"Oh no. Daddy's gonna kiss mummy again."

Hugo made barfing noises while his parents snogged in the kitchen.

"I wish they wouldn't do that."

"Oh hush Hugo. It's sweet. Like Prince Charming or Snow White."

Ron broke the kiss first, wiping his wife's eyes for her. Sweet words passed back and forth between them, with nary a word said.

He turned to see his kids smirking. "Come on kids, let's get dressed. Gramma Molly is expecting you shortly at her house for breakfast."

"You too Daddy?"

"Mummy and I will be there a little later. This is for you kids."

The kids scampered off their chairs to run get dressed.

A smile, and a snog before the kids came back to the room. "We're ready Daddy!"

"Well, come along then. Let's floo over."

He glanced over his shoulder to see his wife fingering the gift in her hand. "When I get back, I'll show you how to use it."

She looked back up at her husband standing in front of the fireplace. "I can hardly wait."

* * *

Ron stopped in at the corner post office, collecting their mail. They might get owl post at home, but their muggle post couldn't be delivered since they made their property unplottable. In the mail on a cold Wednesday morning was a bill from Waterstone's.

_What's this, I wonder?_

Ron opened the letter, and dropped his parcel. _Hermione! $300! For Books! Three times the budget! Bloody Hell!_

He stopped, and smiled. _She's worth it. She's at Sunday brunch at Mum's and out with us more instead of at work or locked in her library._

He picked up the parcel, and made his way home to the family he loved.

* * *

**Merry Christmas** to all of my readers, far and wide.


	9. It's Time

Ch. 9 It's time

* * *

A snore permeated the quiet room. Canons posters adorned one wall, while a stained glass window was on another. Ron was face down in his pillow, taking a much needed and appreciated mid-morning nap.

"Ron, it's time."

Ron fell out of the bed, awake in an instant. His wand was at the ready, eyes alert. "What, who?"

Hermione chuckled from the other side of their king sized platform bed. "I'm not in labor, silly. I'm not even pregnant."

He looked up while grinning like a troll at his wife still huddled under the covers. "Sorry. I thought it was that morning we had to rush to the hospital with Hugo. I'm fine; just a flashback."

Hermione grinned. The memories of that night and morning were now funny, now that four years had passed. Poor Ron still turned a vibrant shade of magenta whenever she brought it up. It wasn't funny at the time, with her water breaking at 1am after an evening of fun and frivolity with Harry and Ginny at the house with the kids. Ginny was a help, Harry a mess trying to corral four kids to the Burrow with Molly and Arthur – and then there was Ron. He was a disaster, since this was his first true birth. He had been out on assignment when Hermione was rushed to the hospital with Rose mid-afternoon from the Ministry. He got there quickly enough – racing back from Blackpool was atrocious via emergency portkey – and she was comfortable when he arrived – but the panic from her going into labor a month early didn't help his nerves.

Ron crawled back into bed, delighting in his wife's warmth. Sunday mornings after the kids went to Gramma Molly's house were so much fun. Fresh sheets on the bed, his wife smelled of bacon, and she delighted in showing him attention and affection in a myriad of ways. He appreciated her undivided attention for him on Sunday mornings after a long week chasing papers across his desk.

Once he snuggled back under the covers, a few days past Christmas, he tickled her flanks, hearing her giggles resonate across the room. "That's for waking me the worst way, woman. You know better."

Her cheeks flushed, and she writhed under his calloused fingers. "Ron, stop, please."

He continued to tickle, enjoying her laughter. "Say it."

He relented for a second, waiting for her to capitulate. She stared at him, daring to continue.

"Fine."

He found another spot to tickle, working away at the middle of her hips. She laughed, her gaffaws echoing in their bedroom.

"I surrender."

Ron continued to tickle, waiting for the magic phrase. "Not yet you don't."

"Weasley is my King!" she panted under his continued antics.

"Yes!"

They fell back onto the bed, both panting from exertion. "That's what you wanted to hear this morning, wasn't it? Had to stroke your ego too, huh?"

"You know me – my ego is as large as – "

"Ronald!"

" – my feet."

"Aren't you cheeky this morning?"

"Only for you, and only for a little while this morning. We still have to be at Mum and Dad's by noon today."

They snuggled back down into the bedclothes, finding the warmth comforting.

"So what was so important to wake me from my mid-morning nap?"

Hermione played with the smattering of ginger hairs on her husband's chest. They were soft like the ones on his head, unlike the stubble on his jawline. "What I was going to say further was that I think it's time to get a new bed set for us."

Ron looked down at his wife, finding her expression serious.

"Really? This one seems fine to me. You've never complained about it in the least."

"I wasn't considering a new purchase for me. I was thinking for your benefit."

"So? What's wrong with this one?"

"You might not notice, but I do when you get up in the middle of the night for a call-out. You gripe about your back aching more, and just not resting as well. I did some research –"

"Now there' a surprise," he cheeked.

" - and the industry recommendation is changing the mattress and box springs every ten years. It's been twelve we've had this one."

"It sure doesn't seem that long."

"It has been. We got this set after we moved into the flat once we got married."

"That long?"

Hermione nodded. "And I don't mention to you, since I'm always up so early, that my hips aren't eighteen anymore, and I could use a bit more support."

"Sure. We can look into getting a new bed. I didn't realize it wasn't comfortable anymore for you."

"Well, it's fine for now, but I'd like to look around and see what we can find that would work best. A king sized set would set us back some galleons if I don't shop around."

"How many galleons are we talking?"

"Well, the better ones are about 300, and can go as high as a thousand."

"A thousand! No bloody way? What do they do, massage your arse while you lie on it?"

"No, dear. They are made with different materials to be comfortable, so the adverts say."

"How much did we pay for this one?"

"Not quite one hundred galleons. I converted the money over to pounds and found it at a shop on sale."

"We can get another one of these, right dear?"

"Well, we could," as Hermione pushed her hand into the mattress, finding a particular spring that squeaked, "but since the kids are getting older, I'd like something that was a touch more quiet when we're on it."

"Are you a witch or what?"

She looked over at her husband, seeing the smirk on his face. "Cheeky bugger."

"We don't have to be quiet. There are spells, you know."

"I know that. I came up with a few we use, remember?" Hermione blushed, looking like a girl of 18 not the mom of 32. "I rather hear you than the bedsprings."

"But the kids don't and won't hear us."

"I know, but I also prefer to hear other things besides the bedsprings making a ruckus."

"Does that really bother you?"

She blushed. "Sometimes. I get distracted by the noise. And you know I wake when the bed squeaks when you get a call-out in the middle of the night."

Ron looked out the window from their cottage, seeing the trees covered in snow and ice. It looked like a cold slice of heaven. "OK. Do your research, and find something we'd both like."

"So you want the cheapest?"

"Blimey no. Not anymore. Find us something that doesn't squeak like a box of ice mice."

"That might be expensive."

"So? We can afford it if we budget. My wife not hearing a squeaking mattress would be worth it."

"A husband whose back didn't hurt would be worth it too."

"My back doesn't hurt."

"But my hips do on occasion."

Ron flipped them over, pushing her deeper into the bed clothes. He wiggled his toes, finding another squeaky spring at the foot of the bed. He looked over his shoulder, finding the offending noise. "You mean like that noisy spring?"

He looked back at his wife, who was once again comfortable in his embrace. "Well, that is certainly another one that will be annoying."

Ron moved his hand, and found another one. "Blimey, you're right. Our bed is infected with ice mice. We do need another one."

Hermione grinned up at her husband, finding his stubble covered cheek beneath her palm. "Maybe since the kids are at Gramma's house, we can use a silencing spell just this once."

"I rather wake the neighbors this morning with our ice mice infested mattress."

Ron leaned down to kiss her gently on her lips while finding another offending coil. They grinned at one another while pressing on various places on their bed, making silly noises while tickling one another.

* * *

It was after ten, and the kids were sound asleep in their beds. A full day at Mum's house, including being cooped inside for much of it made for hyperactive kids. The other mum's got sick of their racket quickly, and tossed them outside for an hour to have a much needed snowball fight. Much hilarity ensued when Percy enchanted some snowballs that chased the other dads around, and when the group returned, they were chattering like a box of ice mice. Plenty of hot cocoa and warming charms did the trick for the kids, and the adults got hot tea with a splash of firewhiskey.

Ron stood in the doorway to Hermione's study, watching her research mattresses. Years later and she kept her nose in research – whether in a dusty old tome or in front of a telly screen. She might be less frugal than his Mum, but she was diligent in finding what they needed for the best price. Of course, she knuckled knuts so she could have more in the budget for her books – and the kids as well. They might scrimp on vacations, or trips abroad, but she never refused the kids what they needed, or occasionally, what they wanted. Sometimes it was a special trip to Honeydukes – and others, it might be stop in Florean Fortescue's for an ice crème. Special treats were more along the lines of a sleepover with Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur, with Victorie, Dominique, and Louis. Not even a trip to stay the night with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny was a treat – more like a weekly occurrence. Having their three kids was also a weekly occurrence.

"Find anything yet dear?"

Hermione glanced up from the monitor, smiling at her dear husband. "A few. I've found anywhere from 125 up to 500. I refuse to consider a thousand galleon mattress set, even if it massaged your bum."

"A thousand? Galleons? Wow."

She nodded her head in ascent. "Everything we order can be delivered to the house in a month, or I can go to a store and find a flood model. We could have that quicker, but probably pay more."

"You know, we could do some cushioning charms on the bed. That might work for now."

"Ronald! We don't need to use magic for every little thing, you know?"

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "You'd think you weren't a witch or something."

"It's not the point. I want the kids to be able to function on occasion out of the magical world. You've said more than once that you have trouble when you have to hide in the Muggle population."

"Isnottrue," Ron pouted. He took four steps to the chair next to her desk, slouching down in it to see her face to face. "I've not said that in years!"

"You said it last month when you were on a case up in Manchester for a week. You were undercover and couldn't use magic unless your life was threatened."

Ron continued to pout.

"And haven't you told me on one occasion that you wished you could drive to my parent's house, since I drive too cautiously?"

Ron's pout grew wider.

Hermione laid a hand on her husband's knee. "I'm just saying I want the kids to see that they can function in both worlds. I want them to have every opportunity that we didn't have growing up. If that means that we hold off on using cushioning charms on our bed and spending galleons on a new mattress, so be it. As long as I'm thrifty we should be fine for the budget."

"You say that about many things."

Hermione smiled with a glint of glee in them. "Of course I do. If you had your way, we'd have blown our budget every month on Chocolate Frogs and licorice wands."

"That's not true. I cut back on them once you told me you were pregnant with Hugo."

Hermione turned back to the computer, beginning her research once again. "At least you got what you wanted when you made it onto the Chocolate Frog cards. I still remember your face getting our letter – or that part of the prize was a lifetime supply of Chocolate Frogs."

Ron frowned. "Hermione?"

She looked up from the monitor, knowing the tone of his voice. "Yes, Ronald?" A smirk crossed her face further.

"What did you get with your offer on the Chocolate Frog card? It's not like you to eat Chocolate unless it's something one of our Mum's makes."

She sat there a few seconds, hemming and hawing. "I asked them to send my portion, minus a few sugar quills a month, to either St. Mungos for the kids, or to Hogwarts for a student who doesn't get many birthday and Christmas presents. I get a letter every month from them, asking where I would like to send mine, and I tell them. What you did for Harry that first Christmas never left my mind."

Ron turned a vibrant shade of red. "You remember me telling you that don't you?"

Hermione looked up and smiled. "Of course I do. Instead of going home for Christmas, you stayed at school. Instead of letting your best mate have a really crummy Christmas, you gave him is first real one. What isn't to love about that kind of generosity, especially since Mum went to extra lengths to make it happen? You complained for years about being poor – having so little to give – yet you gave what you had – sharing space in a family with an overabundance of love – sharing meals, and a Mum who loves so much – asking her to knit a sweater for Harry – his first cherished Christmas gift – and summers having fun, when we weren't being hunted down? I'd say that you gave in spades!"

Ron slouched down in the chair even further.

"You might not think I noticed, but I did. You might have been destitute, as you saw it, but in reality, you were so rich and giving. How could I not notice?"

Ron started to smile once her words sank in.

"I want the kids to see you as their hero, like I do. You are an arse at times, but you're also loving, giving, passionate, and boiling with a need to see justice done. You truly are a paladin, wrapped in a lanky package."

Ron pulled his wife into his lap, boiling her blood immediately in a passionate kiss. His lips left hers, moving to her ear. "You certainly know how to build me up, make me feel good about myself."

She pulled back, just enough to see his illuminated blue eyes. "Shall I continue things elsewhere?"

Ron grinned like Christmas came back just for him. "With pleasure!"

Hermione closed the top of laptop, being pulled away from her study once again.


	10. Enthralled

Ch. 10 **Enthralled**

* * *

"Hermione, I'm home."

Ron stepped into the kitchen of their modest cottage, appreciating the smell of roasted chicken, a pot of mashed garlic potatoes, gingered carrots, salad and pudding. _I'm famished!_

He shed his coat, chunked his boots into the front closet, and threw off his jacket. Ron was nothing if not consistent. Many a row with his wife was over his propensity of leaving his clothes lying on the floor or in the hallway. Rose was just like him – too busy in her mind or her hands to care. Poor Hugo was already showing signs like his Mum – fastidious and tidy. _Gotta talk with that boy; nothing wrong with a little clutter every now and then._

He knew he was a little late from work. Well, more than a little. He told her he'd be home at half five, and a case dropped on his lap at the last minute, and it took a few hours to sort through and clear up. Wizarding domestic violence cases make a mockery of evening plans. _No wonder why Aurors burn out so much – no set schedule most of the time. _Didn't the Wizarding world know that Tuesday evenings were home-cooked meal night at the Weasley household? Ruddy buggers missed the memo from him about not interrupting his dinner plans with his wife and kids.

Ron stepped into their kitchen, looking out into the living room to see the kids were nowhere to be heard. He looked at the watch on his wrist – he still wore his coming of age gift from his parents, Uncle Gideon's watch – and he read it to be eleven at night. _No wonder no one is up and making a ruckus in the den. Kids have been in bed for hours now._

_Just a quick snack to tide me over, _he thought before diving into the plate of roasted chicken. The kids never left him the chicken legs, and Hermione only ate a small portion of the breast – never the skin either, mind you – so he dove into the remaining breast portions, savoring the rosemary garlic spices on the skin. _Oh, the wings too! _He inhaled those as well.

Ron looked down and saw only bones remaining on the plate. _ When did I eat the rest of the chicken?_

He sucked on his fingers, savoring the flavor after inhaling the remaining chicken on the platter. Now all he needed to do was find his wife.

He looked in Hugo's room, seeing his son's messy auburn hair poking out from the top of his bed, along with his favorite stuffed dragon, Puff, right next to him. The other pet dragons kept watch on the shelf above his bed, on top of various books and other important toys. Uncle Charlie loved sending stuffed dragons from the Sanctuary. Hugo loved the gifts from Uncle Charlie.

Ron poked his head into Rose's room, and saw she was fast asleep too. Her even messier auburn hair was spread out on her pillow, snuggled with her pet dragon under the covers too. Komodo was red, inspired by the stories that Uncle Charlie told one Christmas about his first trip to rural China to help deal with a rogue Fireball that bothered the villagers in the countryside. Only Hermione would know about the origination of the name Komodo.

He then went into his bedroom, not finding his wife there either. He smiled, knowing that she was hiding in their library now, probably with her nose stuck in a book. The only question he had was what book was she enthralled in – reading about Goblin contracts, Centaur conflicts, or minutiae of Elf suffrage. It was a wonder that Hermione ever took her nose out of a book, leather bound or digital now. Her library of modern Muggle titles already filled her electronic book, from Sarte to Chaucer to Rowling.

He shed his dress shirt, the one he was fond of. They might have been married for years, but Hermione still insisted that they go out to Muggle London for an annual fitting for him. That first year, before she finished school, still made him laugh, being fitted for clothes and robes in nothing but his pants by someone older than McGonagall. The mortified teen standing in the shop wearing white boxers was humiliating enough. The eighteen year old Ron was mortified – but the 32 year old Ron understood what Hermione did all those years ago.

He remembered, while sliding the slightly rank undershirt he wore daily. He wasn't the emaciated eighteen year-old he was after the war, but the training polished Auror of 32. He was glad his sizes changed from then to now.

Now, he loved clothes, as opposed to the hand-me-downs and hand-knitted attire his Mum was known for. Ron resented the hand me downs, the consignment clothes, the patchwork jackets when he wasn't in his school robes. Hermione understood his resentment at his siblings, who once they were out of the house and earning their own money, had clothes that fit. He had even been annoyed at Ginny. The locket tormented him on occasion all those years past, about Mum favoring her best, by buying Ginny clothes that fit her well. Since she was the only girl, she got her own things, her own nice robes. Her clothes weren't patched, or worn in the knees, or two inches too short in the leg.

He was thankful that he wasn't as skinny as he was then. Finding shirts and trousers and denims then was difficult. Now, it wasn't so bad. An extra four inches across the waist and hips did wonders for finding all kinds of slacks. The extra inch on the neck meant finding dress shirts for work off the rack rather than tailored. That saved plenty of galleons.

Hermione would shop for him on occasion, since he was rather busy for work. The occasional trip during a break in her work afforded her time to pick up the wardrobe he has. She didn't buy him much, but what she did looked nice on him. The tailor shop she purchased his clothes from was affordable, and they had his measurements on file. The off-the-rack clothes he wore on weekends and for casual attire was name brand, one that had a miniature polo player on it. He said he didn't care, but his wife knew better. She had to hear him complain on occasion at a thread-worn seam, or a fray on a trouser cuff.

Ron unbuckled the belt on his trousers, laying the leather belt on the chair in the corner.

At first, he resented the dragon skin jacket that was hung in the front foyer closet. It was a gift from Fred and George for Christmas 1997. He fumed he saw the package from George, realizing that it had sat for a year while the three of them were gone into hiding. When he tore into the red and gold wrapping paper, he couldn't decide to laugh or cry. George fought the tears save one in the corner of his eye. He loved it, but also fought his temper that Fred couldn't be there to share in the outstanding gift. Hermione knew just from the expression on her face, and she halted his spiraling temper for the moment, helping him later that night cope from his annoyance.

Years passed and the jacket still hung in the closet. He wore it when they would go out for dinner or a night out on the town. Precious nights afforded by the Grandparents Granger keeping the kids while Ron took his wife out on a date. He wore it thanks to Hermione and gently expanding it across the shoulders and chest so he could fit it without tearing the seams. They would get many a look from the Muggles who saw them, but the men would nod in appreciation. Hermione was brilliant, charming it that way. They only saw a black butter soft calfskin leather driving coat. Wizards saw the iridescent purple of the Ridgeback skin coat, fitting across his broad shoulders and tailored to fit his overlong arms.

It fit a touch more snug now than it did when he first got it. Ron had filled out considerably from when he was eighteen to now. But Gred and Forge were brilliant in getting it oversized. He needed the width across the shoulders and chest, along with the extra room in the arms and in the length. Dragonhide only stretched so far under magic.

Ron slid his trousers down his 34 inch inseam legs, stepping out of them onto the cold hardwood floor. He stood in their bedroom in his pants, assessing how he looked now. His reflection showed how he had changed in the intervening years. His legs were still long, somewhat gangly, but also stronger and more muscled. He looked better in his pants now than he did when he was younger.

He laughed, seeing the branded trunks his wife would purchase for him. The bright colors were amusing but every time Hermione would see them on him, her smile would shine like it was lit by fairy lights.

The end of their first summer together was an eye opening experience for him. He came home from the shop one day to find Hermione going through his pants drawer in his bureau. She inspected each pair, boxers and briefs that were in there.

"Hermione, what are you doing with my pants?" They cascaded to the floor, briefs and boxers both. A small pile was already there, tossed aside like rubbish. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, on one of those rare occasions when she was having a good day that first summer, and gave him a mischievous grin.

"You'd look better in something other than white pants, Ron. So I picked up others for you when I was out shopping with Ginny today."

Hermione held up a sack, and inside were a rainbow of pants for him, from colorful briefs, patterned pants, and even some solid color boxer briefs like Harry was want to wear. Packages galore inundated him. But all Ron saw was his comfortable white pants in the drawer.

"Don't throw out my pants. I can still wear them!"

Hermione took the drawer out of the chest, and dumped the pile of white pants on the ground. She put the drawer back into the bureau, and put the myriad of new pants in there.

"Honestly Ronald. If I want to buy my boyfriend pants, I shall. I will buy you manly pants since it's for my benefit anyway."

Ron stepped back from the mirror, turning to profile to see how he looked in his orange camouflage trunks. Chudley put those out as a gag gift one year, and Hermione bought up his size. Surprisingly, they were comfortable for as silly and obnoxious as they looked on his lanky body.

Hermione's influence was apparent there as well, purchasing his pants from various places. His favorite would always be his Chudley Cannons pants, in "obnoxious Orange" as Hermione was want to call them – but she also purchased him name brand trunks, sedate boxer briefs, and boxers too, some strange and some funny. Once Hermione became his girlfriend, lover, and wife, she never let him have another pair of white pants. White undershirts were necessary, but never white pants.

"But why, Hermione?"

She knew him so well, and he was thankful for it. It was one of the first things she did for him, and the start of something more. Now, he loved going out for a day with her, shopping for his clothes.

"_They clash with your pale skin."_

Ron chuckled at the memory of that day, and how she got him in and out of his new wardrobe of pants.

He pulled open the top drawer of the bureau – the same one they bought all those years ago – and pulled out a pair of lounge trousers, and pulled on a jumper over his fresh t-shirt. Now that he had something to eat, and was out of the polyester twill slacks required for his uniform, it was time to track down his wife.

He tiptoed to the library, finding Hermione deep in a book. The books in the room were closed. The laptop on her desk, along with the Christmas present, were closed and turned off as well. Whatever she was reading was outstanding material, and worthy of her undivided attention. She never was without various sources of reading material, whether related to work or the world around them.

He stepped onto the carpet in the library, watching his wife read voraciously whatever it was that had her tuning out the rest of the world. On the cover was a man with a sword, looking similar to Ron but with older styled clothes. The look of intensity on his face reminded him of Harry during their training: hyper-focused determination. But what set his teeth on edge was how big the book was in her small hands. Small vermin would cower in fear from the size of that book.

He leaned over and kissed her on top of the head, knowing that she was not present in the library – well, at least not mentally. She was off in her other world, reading away, consumed in rare pleasure reading. He watched the seconds tick by while her brain went from all out reading to full stop in acknowledging his action. She put a finger in the tome, looking up at her husband and seeing him smiling. "Hello Love!"

"Pleasure reading dear?"

Hermione grinned, seeing her husband dressed in a jumper and sleep pants. "For once, yes. I've been waiting on this book for years, and now that I have it, I can't wait to finish reading it."

"Oh really? How far into the book are you?"

"Oh I only started about an hour ago." She picked up the book from her lap, a finger holding onto her place, some hundred some-odd pages into the story. "I can't put the story down, it's so good."

"Only an hour? What time do you think it is dear?"

Hermione furrowed her brow, looking confused. "Isn't it half nine?"

Ron smiled, the one that told her that she lost track of time yet again. "No, dear, it's not half nine. It's half eleven."

"Oh my. When'd you get home?"

"About thirty minutes ago. When I didn't find you in our bedroom, I thought you'd be in here. I didn't realize you were engrossed in the book already."

Hermione blushed, looking at the tome in her hands. "I couldn't get it in digital, so I had to get the hardback from Waterstone. It came in today, and I had to wait until the kids were in the bed asleep before I could start into it. I didn't realize how far along into the night we were."

Ron chuckled. "You rarely have time for pleasure reading that I won't mind tonight."

Hermione put the book down on the side table, uncurling from her blanket and cracking the toes from being tucked under her hips for so long. Her smile warmed him better than any beverage this evening.

"But what if I mind? I've barely seen you in the last week."

Ron smiled down at his wife, threading his hands in hers behind her back, on the tops of her hips. "You're putting down a book you've waited for years for, for me?"

She nodded, flashing that secret smile she reserved for him. "The book is here, and it'll wait tonight. My husband needs me more than a book does. He needs appreciation for his hard work more than the books needs my attention."

Ron pulled his wife even closer, smelling vanilla and ink. She always had her favorite smells on her, including roasted chicken and fresh baked bread. The mix of food and Hermione were the comfort of home.

"Thanks for dinner, love. I was famished when I got home."

Her smile grew wider, and her arms pulled tighter behind her back. Ron stood so close the warmth radiating off of her soaked though his jumper. "Shall we retire dear?"

Hermione stood up on her toes, kissing him on his nose. "Lead the way, love."

* * *

Ron woke when he reached his hand out to Hermione's side of the bed and she wasn't there. The sheets were cold, and the bed was rumpled. He opened his eyes, and it was still dark outside.

_Blimey, what time is it?_

He looked over to the side table, finding the charmed muggle wind up clock Hermione kept for him. Half six, so said the hands on the clock.

Ron slipped out of the bedclothes, intending to find where he wife was this morning. She always was an early riser regardless of what time she closed her eyes the night or morning before. She ran many days on two hours of sleep before working all day, but eventually, she would spectacularly crash later.

Ron retrieved the fleece housecoat from the door of the loo, throwing it on before leaving the warmth of their bedroom. First stop was Hugo's room – and he was still asleep, snoring lightly. Ron smiled seeing the unruly mop of auburn hair in the ever burning candlelight.

Ron stuck his head in Rose's room and Hermione wasn't in there either. A messy pile of bushy curls just poked out of the top of the blue and gold duvet on her bed as well.

Ron closed the door to Rose's room, and went to the library. He cracked open the door, and there was his wife, with her nose back in the book. He waited a minute, seeing if she would notice.

She never did. She was busy turning the pages, devouring the text like she hadn't read in months, not hours. Ron smiled before closing the door to the library. _She's gorgeous when she's enthralled in a book. For once, I can come in second place to her passion for her books and love of reading. _

He made his way to the kitchen, intending to enjoy his day off by frying up breakfast. _Have to make a pan of porridge for Hermione too. _Ron set a frying pan on the stove, waiting for it to get to the right temperature to start the rashers.

He pulled a knife from the drawer then opened the cooling cabinet for the berries Hermione preferred on her porridge. A quick flick of his wand and the knife was slicing the berries for her breakfast.

_Maybe the smell will coax her from the book. Nah, who am I kidding. She'll finish the book after breakfast is finished then ask where her bowl of porridge and fruit is. She's so predictable._

* * *

Hermione closed the book, feeling the trail of salt on her cheeks that had burned away from the last three hundred pages of reading. The time she spent reading as a child, into an adult, was worth the last book. The ending was incomplete, replete with a myriad of possibilities, and few established answers.

_Thanks Dad for introducing me to such great friends. _

Her friends, the first ones she ever really had, waved at her as she closed the series, finished for the first time. The characters in the book that she traveled along with, hungry, cold, scared, and eventually empowered, spoke to her as a child, and now as a Mom.

_One day, your story will be told to my kids, and hopefully more. They need their heroes too. They need an influence on their lives, like you were on mine. But I shall return to read with you once again._

Hermione put down the bound hardback, rolling her neck and uncurling her legs from under the cushions of the broken in and warn recliner. She lifted her head, and spied that the door to the library was open. The smell of rashers wafted into the room, along with strong coffee.

She looked at the clock on the mantle. Noon.

_Blimey, what happened?_

She opened the door, and walked into the kitchen. Under the warming charm was breakfast – porridge with fruit along with a hot cup of coffee. Ron was in the living room with the kids playing quietly.

"Mummy!" came the squeals from the kids, crashing into her like a tidal wave. "We missed you!"

"I was in the other room reading silly goose!"

"But Daddy told us to be quiet and let you read, since what you were reading was so important."

Hermione looked up from her kids faces to see her husband smiling back at her. "You were so enthralled in your book earlier that I said I'd let you read. You deserve some time on your own too."

Hermione looked down at her kids, seeing their snaggle- toothed grins. "I was reading a story that I started when I was a child, just a few years older than you. But unlike you, I had to wait for the author to write the story. And today, now that I finished it, I can say it was worth the wait."

"Can I read it Mummy? Please Mummy!"

Hermione picked up Hugo onto her hip and mussed her daughter's hair. "Not yet, dear. But soon enough, you will. They were my first friends and some of the best I ever read. You'll learn about those heroes soon enough. But now, we have other things you should read first. Prince Billy and Princess Jane need your attention for now."

Hermione looked over Hugo's head, smiling in appreciation to her husband. Only he knew the whole story, her friends who were nothing but words on a page to most, but her closest friends growing up when the world was an unkind place. _Thank you._

Ron nodded back in thanks. _You owe me._

Hermione grinned back. _I know._

* * *

**A/N:** This is my ode and chapter of thanks to one of my literary inspirations, Robert Jordan. I picked up his first book in his World of Time series back in college (in the dark ages) – and was hooked from the first 20 pages in. From there, a world awaited, and I eagerly anticipated each release. 20 years in my case (23 in real time publishing) and so many words to make anyone's eyes burn in exhaustion, and I finished the final book last month. (It took me considerably longer to read it than Hermione does. She's brilliant, you know!) 14 tomes are nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you!

So, this is my homage to RJ, and for the story that was and is a profound influence on my own writing.

May the Dragon continue to ride the Wheel of Time. - DG


	11. A Hero's Reward

**Ch. 11 - A Hero's Reward**

* * *

**A/N: Still not JK Rowling, but I'd love to have Ron check up on me when he's on call. A spot of tea would be nice. - DG**

* * *

Ron stepped inside the hallway to his home, listening to the giggles and cackles of his children playing in the den of their residence. A whiff of dinner – Hermione's honey ham was always welcome - greeted him like an old friend. The only thing he liked better than the smell of dinner was the smell of his wife in his arms.

He had a call-out last night at half eleven, dragging him from the warmth of his wife and his comfortable new bed to Stoke on Trent for a murder. Ruddy mess that was, and he was just getting home after being on scene sixteen hours.

"Daddy!" yelled the chorus of his kids who tried to tackle him to the floor. In a few years, they would probably be successful. Then again, if he can catch his wife still when she jumped into his arms, he might have a few years remaining.

He picked up Rose, throwing her over his broad shoulder, and dragged his leg with Hugo on it. His children were his life, but the sight that greeted him in the kitchen was his everything. There stood Hermione, whisking a pot of mashed potatoes to go with the pot of cut pole beans and a loaf of fresh baked bread.

Ron smiled through his exhaustion, feeling the grime from what he saw slough off of him. The kids were still laughing while he was watching his wife, dancing to a little tune inside her own head.

"You must be thinking of a slow song dittany."

She turned and flashed a smile that warmed his cold tarnished soul. "Just a little something my husband played for me one morning on Valentine's Day so long ago."

Ron smiled at the memory of that day and of that morning. He doubted that Hermione remembered it the way he did. She smiled, giving him that special one that promised so much more when the kids weren't present. Ron shook Hugo from his leg, and set Rose down on the ground also. "Go wash up."

Hugo play gagged, earning a smirk from Rose too. "Come on Hugo. They want to kiss without us here."

"Ugh. They are so gross!"

Hermione looked down at her perceptive kids, smiling back. "I need a quiet moment with Daddy before he gets to play with you the rest of the day. Run along and do as he asked you."

"Aw Mum!" they intoned in unison while scurrying from the room.

Hermione took two steps, crashing her lips into her husband. "Missed you."

He growled while meeting her in response. "So awful."

She pulled back, threading her hands up to his face, seeing the grief hidden in his eyes. "Now or later?"

"Tonight, please."

"Of course."

She kissed him once again, threading her hands across his hips and onto his bum. A quick hard squeeze and she turned back to the pots on the stove.

He threaded his long arms around her waist, nudging her hair out of the way so he could pepper her neck with light kisses.

"Dinner won't be ready for another fifteen minutes. You've got time for a shower, dear."

Rambunctious feet echoed down the hall. Bickering preceded the siblings. "Rose!"

"I said so, Hugo!"

They slid to a halt. The kids saw Daddy kissing Mum yet again before he gave them a huge grin. He let her go and trudged out of the kitchen for a much needed hot shower.

Hermione blushed. Being caught by the kids was something she wasn't accustomed to yet. She looked down at them, seeing bright blue eyes looking up at her.

"Is Daddy ok?"

Hermione quickly turned off the burners before turning back to the kids. _Such perceptive kids. They take after him, they do._ "Daddy had a bad day at work. It was long and rough. But once he has a shower and supper, he'll be fine."

"I missed him."

"I know. I did too."

"Mummy?"

Hermione hunched down to look at her son. Hugo was the best of both of them: bushy auburn hair with bright blue eyes. "Yes, dear?"

"Why does Daddy come home mad?"

"Daddy's not mad, just frustrated." Hermione reached for her neck before realizing she did it. Instead, she put her hands on his shoulders, kneeling down to talk with him like she still did with Kreacher. "Daddy is a good guy, like Prince Reggie."

Two sets of heads nodded in understanding.

"Sometimes, Daddy has to deal with bad people, who hurt others."

"But why would someone do that?"

_Sigh._ "Not everyone is like a good guy like Daddy."

"But why, Mummy?"

Hermione looked at her daughter, knowing the gears were running in her head. She was brilliant in the same ways, but with Ron's influences. "Sweetie, I've been trying to figure that out for years too. I don't understand it either, but Daddy and I work hard to help those who are hurt. You know that, right?"

Two small heads bobbed once again.

"You know those nights when you get to stay with Aunt Ginny during the week? Or Gramma Molly comes over and babysits?"

Quiet footsteps and a smell of wet Ron told her he was standing in the doorway listening to their conversation now.

Two quiet _uh huh_'s reply back to her. "Those are the nights that Mummy has to help Daddy. Daddy's my hero too – but even heroes on occasion need help. Does that make sense?"

"You mean like when Prince Henry was helped by Prince Reggie and Princess Hera?"

Hermione smiled. "That's right Hugo. Daddy was out being a hero and helping keep the world a better place."

Hugo looked up, showing his snaggle toothed grin. "I want to be like Daddy when I grow up."

Hermione smiled. "I think that would be a good guy to emulate. What about Prince Reggie?"

Hugo screwed up his face, remembering the bedtime stories that Mum and Dad told him. "Prince Reggie is awesome, but Daddy is right here. Besides, Prince Reggie is make-believe. You told us there is a difference between make believe and reality."

"Close enough for now, dear."

"What do you mean, Mummy?"

Hermione smiled while looking and her brilliant kids. "There is a difference between fantasy and make believe, and folklore and legends and myth. When you're older, I'll explain the difference. But I want you to know that Prince Reggie and Prince Henry and Princess Hera were real."

Two sets of bright blue eyes went as wide as a house elf's. "Really? They were real?"

Hermione nodded while casting a side-long glance at her husband. He had slipped on a jumper to go with his lounge trousers. "They were, but there are some things that we're just not certain about now. When you're older, and we think you're ready, we'll tell you what we know of Prince Reggie and Princess Hera. Will that do for now?"

Two small heads nodded in approval. "Now, go sit down at the table while Daddy and I set it. Dinner's almost ready."

The kids went to the breakfast table with a book each waiting on dinner.

* * *

Hermione stood at the sink in their kitchen washing dishes. Ron brought the rest of the dishes in for her to wash up. She might use magic for many a thing in their house but washing dishes was something she preferred doing sans magic. She just didn't think the plates got clean enough for her tastes. The same went for the glasses. A faint smile crossed her lips the first time she tried cleaning glasses via magic – much to Molly Weasley's chagrin. It took a day to clean all of the shards out of the tabletop after that unfortunate accident.

Ron's laughter mingled with the kids' giggles. The kids were the boon, playing games in the den with him. She knew he needed time with them from working so hard away from them. She knew her husband was exhausted. His eyes betrayed what he was thinking, much less feeling. These times, she didn't mind cooking dinner, or washing dishes. She would do anything so he would have those precious moments with the kids before they grew up and moved on from them.

Hermione pushed the sleeve of her jumper back, still cringing from the scar on her arm. It had been fifteen years now, but due to the magical properties, the nasty word still stood out. She hid it most days, whether for professional reasons, or so others wouldn't gawk. She kept a glamour on it when she wasn't wearing warm clothes. The kids didn't know. She wasn't ready to answer their questions. How can you explain the horrors of a war, or that your grandmother killed someone, or that your mum was tortured for information? When is a good time to explain to the kids, if ever, what their family went through, and the sacrifices they made, so the kids could be children, innocent and naïve?

She didn't know if she ever would.

"Mummy, I want a biscuit."

Hermione jumped, startled out of her reverie by her daughter. She hadn't heard the high pitched giggles from her before Rose tugged on her jumper.

"Sure baby. Let me get you a tin out of the cabinet."

Hermione reached up to get a tin of Hobnobs out of the cabinet. Ron wouldn't touch them, but the kids loved them.

"Mummy, what is that on your arm?"

Hermione moved to cover her scar again. _Merlin, not yet._

Hermione pulled the top off of the tin and handed six biscuits to her. "These are for you and Daddy and Hugo. You get two each and no more."

Rose took the biscuits in her hands, running out of the kitchen. Laughter and giggles soon followed her departure.

_That was too close. I can't put her off forever. But they are barely out of nappies, much less answering questions of why I have a terrible word carved on my arm._

Ron came into the kitchen to get a hand towel. Crumbs coated his hands, and a smear creased his face. "Brilliant idea, even if I can't stand Hobnobs."

"Sorry dear. Rose came in while I was elbows deep in dishes and she startled me." Hermione turned around and leaned back against the sink counter. "Rose saw the scar on my arm and asked me about it."

Ron groaned with her. "She's six."

Hermione scowled. "I realize that. She's noisy like you are."

Ron smiled. "She does take after me, even if she's brilliant like you are."

"But that's just the problem. She's not ready to know yet." Hermione put her hand on her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Six is way too young to know what happened to Mummy and Daddy and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny. I'm not ready to explain to her what happened."

"I realize that. But we'll have to tell them at some point before they go off to Hogwarts."

"I'm not ready for them to be off at school and away from us for months on end."

Ron stepped closer to give his wife a hug. "We have years yet. Rose won't turn 11 until October of that year so we have a little more time with her. Hugo is the same way. He loves stories of the boy who flies on Dragons. I don't think he will have a problem with finding out his parents rode on one also."

"Hugo, No!" came the yell from the den.

Ron turned and ran out the kitchen with his wife on his heels.

Ron stopped and saw what could have happened. Hovering above Hugo's head was the clock from the mantle, an inch from his head. Rose was staring at fiercely. He reached over and plucked it from the air to set it on the table away from the kids.

Hermione stood back shaking. _Always reacts that way when the kids get hurt. I'll have to handle it today. _

"Rose, what happened?"

"Hugo said he wanted clock and it started flying. I yelled and the clock stopped."

Ron turned and saw Hermione's eyes go wide. "You did? That's great Rosie!"

Rose turned to her Mum. "Did I do good Mummy?"

"You saved Hugo honey. You're my hero."

Rose flashed her snaggletooth grin.

"You did great Rose. You kept Hugo from getting hurt."

Hermione reached over and picked up Hugo. "No clocks for you. Very dangerous."

Hugo giggled when Hermione blew a raspberry on his neck. "Come on you. Time for a bath."

Ron gave a look. "We're going out to Diagon Alley for some ice crème. We'll be back shortly. A hero needs to be rewarded, don't you think?"

"Ice Crème?" said a high pitched voice.

Hermione smiled. "I certainly do. Go show off our Hero to your brother too."

Ron picked up his daughter. She was squirming in his arms ready to get her treat.

"We're going to get ice crème. Mummy and Hugo will stay here. Heroes get a reward for being outstanding. You're a hero today so you're getting ice crème."

Ron looked once more at Hermione before putting his hand into the Floo powder vase. Words weren't needed between them. They were each other's Hero.

=8=


End file.
